Dreamcatcher
by rebelxxwaltz
Summary: People evolve, hopes and dreams take on new shapes, but there are some things that never change. Multi-chapter post S4 fic, spoilers accordingly.
1. Chapter 1

Hello everyone! I wasn't planning on writing anything S4 related this soon, but sometimes I am just an impatient jerk with no self-control and this story snuck up on me and wanted to come out. I have no idea how many chapters it's going to have, and that's the honest truth. Now that the first bit is complete I'll step back and create a planning document and see what happens.

Updates may not be swift, because I'm not an insanely speedy beast of a writer like my friend _TheGodmother2_! ;D I will certainly do my best to keep the story moving, though, and always greatly appreciate the feedback and messages I receive!

Blanket warning: This is set post season 4, so there will be spoilers accordingly.

* * *

 _ **Dreamcatcher  
** **Part I**_

* * *

 _Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can_ _'_ _t seem to find it._

 _Well, how hard are you looking?_

 _I_ _'_ _m looking where the shirts are._

 _Well obviously you_ _'_ _re not looking where ALL the shirts are._

 _I_ _'_ _m so sorry._

 _You were supposed to do the dishes last night._

 _I think I know how to make it up to you._

 _I doubt that_ _'s possible_ _…_

* * *

The texture of everyday life has changed.

There are jagged edges where everything was once smooth, bumps and pockmarks in places where no obvious blemishes used to exist. Maybe it was never sunshine and roses, but he didn't recall that there had been this many thorns beneath the surface. Then again, he might have been too scared back then to reach out and touch it all with his eyes or with his hands.

The texture of life has changed, and he knows he's the one who altered it. Tragedy after travesty, mistake after near miss, the trials of existence have battered the shores and eroded the façades of once formidable humanistic structures. He tried so hard to brace up the barricades, but by the time he realized that there were massive, yawning gaps in his defenses it was already too late.

People often claim that change is for the better. That was what he had been trying to affect; to make life easier, more orderly, with clearer boundaries and unambiguous demarcations. He was trying to do what was best for each and every one of them. And now here he was after weeks of stubborn effort, barefoot and shirtless with a recently-discharged sidearm gripped in his right hand and yet another uninvited houseguest left gasping and bleeding on his doorstep.

As for his interrupted bedfellow? He'd thought she was safe, sensible, logical, and oddly comforting. How could he have been wrong on so many levels? What other fallacies had he allowed himself to believe? It was becoming clear that he'd taken the easy way out in a desperate bid for self-preservation, and look where he'd ended up. The clues had been right in front of his face, all the signs, and he had missed them so completely it was almost like he'd done it on purpose.

Walt's racing heart exacerbated the sick feeling that lodged in the pit of his stomach as he watched Donna Monaghan drop to her knees at the intruder's side, sobbing and screaming as she pawed at the trunk of his prone form and smeared streaks of red all over her demure, light-colored clothing. All the warmth and softness Walt thought he had awakened in her was replaced by something cold, twisted, and unpleasantly familiar. The rage. The panic. A single-mindedness that he himself knew well.

 _I think I know how to make it up to you._

 _I doubt that_ _'s possible_ _…_

She hadn't liked the quiet. He should have known then, but he had been too blind to understand it.

* * *

This time, suggestions that he needed therapy came with the dreaded stamp that read 'COURT ORDERED' in unforgiving block letters. Walt was probably lucky he still had a job, even luckier they hadn't imposed forced medical leave in light of the department's shorthanded status, but the circumstances had shown in his favor and Dr. Monaghan's statement had been surprisingly forthcoming. He wasn't sure when he'd stopped thinking about her as 'Donna.' Probably sometime between Ferg gently but firmly escorting her from the scene and the FBI finding her cardigan on the living room floor and bagging it as evidence.

Vic was nowhere to be seen that day, and she later informed him that was attributable to the fact that there were still other crimes in 'this shit hole of a county' which didn't start and end with him. Maybe he'd deserved that venomous admonishment, but that didn't stop it from pissing him off. There was a rising tide of anger every time he saw Vic lately, no doubt another issue some barely-tested mental health professional would try to medicate out of his skull. With so many other things going on Walt wasn't sure whether the reactive emotions were actually directed at Vic or toward himself, so he did what he was used to doing— squashed them down and pinned them beneath the boulder of denial he was always carrying in the depths of his gut.

When Ruby had pushed the issue of arranging his first appointment with the psychiatrist, Walt responded with a joke about how he'd already tried 'seeing' one and that hadn't worked out too well in the end. It wasn't that he'd expected anyone to laugh ("Too soon?"), but the connection of Deputy Ferguson's fist with his jaw had come as a surprise. Maybe it was his flippant attitude, maybe it was the fact that Zachary Heflin was still unconscious in the hospital… whatever it was, the Ferg had reached the end of his rope and Walt knew the deck of rightness was stacked against him on this one.

His other remaining deputy hadn't reacted at all, not to the tastelessly inflammatory joke or to the half-hearted scuffle that followed. Vic's blonde ponytail swished to the side in irritation as her fingers hammered against the keys of her laptop, keen gaze uninterested in the prospect of Walt's injury for the first time he could ever remember. The way this day was going so far, she was probably typing up her letter of resignation. He was surprised to feel a lump in his throat at the thought, along with the nauseating knowledge that she would be entirely justified to leave him here holding five bags of shit without an ounce of remorse.

The only hint that Vic might still give a damn about anything to do with the current situation came later in the afternoon when Walt was reluctantly preparing to leave for the time and location Ruby had scrawled on a post-it and wordlessly adhered to his desk. Hat in hand, he'd cracked the door to the outer office only to see Vic throw down some paperwork, release a muffled string of curse words ending in "Son of a _bitch,_ _"_ and kick the wastebasket across the room. Walt was never one to back down from a fight, so he claimed, but in this case he deemed it the wiser choice to shy away and use the private exit to avoid yet another fractious encounter.

On his way out Walt noticed the beleaguered office directory board with its missing and lopsided letters. At this rate he'd be lucky if he had any deputies left at all by the time their next paychecks were cut, but nevertheless he'd be damned before he threw himself on the mercy of the feds or a neighboring county again. He thought about Eamonn O'Neill's innocuously smug smile and the all too real prospect of the younger man's hand at the small of Vic's back, which a traitorous corner of Walt's mind still thought of as his own personal territory against all recent assertions and evidence to the contrary.

 _It would probably be for the best,_ he told himself, knowing as the thought danced across the landscape of his mind like a tumbleweed that it was the worst lie he'd formulated in a day jam-packed with self-deceiving fish stories of the highest order.

The shape and consistency of Walt's new existence rubbed and chafed against the constraints he'd placed upon himself as he shoved the key into the Bronco's ignition, steeling himself for more and bigger deflections as he navigated the winding roads of his own battered intellect and the even more sparsely populated terrain of Absaroka County.

* * *

Amazingly, they'd managed to find Walt a psychiatrist that he didn't want to punch five minutes into the first 'session.' It was easy to imagine that Ruby had a hand in it, right down to the discreet location of the office. The doctor was an older man with a calm demeanor, who had evidently spent some time traveling around with the Peace Corps in his wilder youth. Walt knew if there was one thing the court couldn't mandate it was to make him 'talk about his feelings', but he talked anyway.

At the end of their time the doc encouraged Walt to consider the fact that he had talked about other people and abstract concepts but had hardly spoken about himself at all, not about what was happening on the inside as opposed to at the surface level he presented to the world.

Walt thought that was what he _had_ been talking about, and in the end he drove away from the experience feeling more screwed up in the head than he had when he'd arrived. Frowning, he gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and wondered whether that might actually be a good thing. He called back later that afternoon and booked the rest of his appointments, figuring it was at the very least a healthier form of therapy than creating yet another clattering pyramid of beer cans.

For the next several weeks things at work were still tense, but he was trying. Ferg seemed calmer, and Walt was careful both to listen and to provide clear direction and follow up on cases. Vic was still barely speaking to him, but Cady mentioned over lunch that Vic had been saving up and looking at some small rental properties in the same neighborhood as Cady's place. He couldn't bring himself to ask his daughter for the more private details about her roommate that he secretly longed to know, especially not in light of the melancholy disapproval Cady wore in her expression when Walt spoke about his blonde deputy.

He briefly wondered when and how Vic and Cady had developed some sort of girl code and chalked his name into the column marked 'do not engage.'

* * *

Walt had never been a prodigious sleeper. The law enforcement profession didn't exactly allow for it, and the events of the past several years had conspired to keep him up at night more often than not. He'd found some measure of peace after the standoff with Barlow, and dreams had come to him for the first time in a long time. In the end he wondered whether he'd been better off without them, considering the aftermath of his failed attempt at romance.

He'd continued seeing the psychiatrist a couple times a week, and they'd talked about things like trauma and PTSD and transference— he was coming to terms with the fact that maybe he'd seen what he wanted to see, engaged in selective listening and allowed the red flags to slip his notice. He'd projected his frustrations and redirected his attraction, and he still found himself clamming up when the therapist asked him about his feelings for Vic. It was something he'd been hiding from himself for such a long time, how was he even supposed to put it into words?

The ability to sleep gradually returned to him, though he doubted he'd be ready to spend an entire night in his bed again right away. For the time being the sofa was more than adequate, and not tainted with the shameful memory of just how close he'd come to compromising himself once again. It was an incredible relief, the ability to shut his eyes and drift away to the blackness of oblivion…

* * *

 _Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can_ _'_ _t seem to find it._

Blonde hair, face turned away at the kitchen counter with a range of mystery ingredients strewn across the cluttered surface.

 _W_ _hy do you need the new one_ _?_ _You have like a dozen other blue shirts._

There's something bubbling on the stove. Coffee on the sideboard, ready to be poured. The light through the window suggests early afternoon.

 _But I just got this one_ _._ _Anyway, I thought you liked me in blue._

A short laugh. Bare shoulders bordered by strips of black cotton beneath the golden tresses.

 _I do. Why do men suck so bad at keeping track of their own stuff?_

He presses his body against hers, fingers sliding slowly over the dark fabric at the curve of her waist as he moves to encircle it.

 _I_ _'_ _m so sorry._

She puts down the spatula she's been wielding, arching her neck and stroking his forearm as his lips nuzzle the soft skin behind her earlobe.

 _You w_ _ould know where the fucking shirt was if you'd checked on the laundry like I asked._

Smiling against the side of her neck, he presses his jean-clad erection against the firm softness of her ass.

 _I think I know how to make it up to you._

Her eyes flash green and gold in the sunlight as she turns in his arms, deliberately maintaining the contact of their perpetually hungry bodies. The tone of her voice is sultry, and he knows he's halfway back into her good graces already.

 _This better be good. I don't make my uncle Al's lasagna for uncooperative shitheads that don't put out._

The kiss is deep and rough and heated, hands grasping and crockery clattering as he lifts her onto the counter and her smooth legs wrap around his waist. All the pieces fit and it's familiar but exciting and he knows how to please her and he wants to. God, he _wants—_

* * *

Walt woke with a gasp, body in a state of intense agitation and mind overflowing with turbulent images of himself and Vic in blissful and undeniably alluring domestic circumstances. He sat up and held his head in both hands, elbows propped just above his knees. He couldn't help but remember the chain of events that had unfolded the last time he'd dreamed about a woman, but this new version of the scenario was far more meaningful and infinitely more terrifying.

Was this what they could have had? What he'd managed to destroy before it even had a chance to unfold?

So much for sleep. Walt rubbed the back of his neck and headed for a lukewarm shower. He had enough work to do at the station anyway, since he was still undeniably short on deputies.

* * *

Dreams are indeed funny things. Wonder what, if anything, Walt is planning to do about this one? And what's going on with Vic anyway? Seems like she hasn't decided to pull up stakes and leave town just yet…

As always, your reviews and insights are most welcome. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Part two for you. I'm aiming to average about one chapter a week with this fic, but I do have a rare and (hopefully) peaceful staycation coming up next week so I'm determined to dig my heels in and get a bunch plotted out/written. Thanks to all who left feedback on the first installment, it's appreciated!

Warning for some Vic-style language in this chapter.

* * *

 **Dreamcatcher  
** **Part II**

"Son of a _bitch!_ _"_

The small wastebasket skidded across the office, and Vic Moretti vaguely considered the inherent misdirection in that particular insult. Why curse the parent when the son is the dickhead at fault? Maybe she should use " _Motherfucker_ _"_ instead…? Nah. Same problem. How was it fair that all the most common slurs used against men end up being hurtful to women in the end?

There was just something about the men in her life lately that inspired a violent reaction. Or, in this particular case, the man formerly in her life. Not that it should be a surprise that Sean was still finding a way to stick it to her even after their divorce— it was certainly safe to say that his transfer to Australia had not caused the fabled 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' effect. Communication was sparse, but he always managed to get some kind of dig in about her and Walt between his latest excuses as to why he hadn't forked over the money he owed her.

When Walt had served her the divorce papers, she'd been sure. Her marriage to Sean had been deteriorating for so long, with both of them in denial or simply unwilling to make life even more difficult by upsetting the stagnant and acrimonious status quo, it had only been a matter of time. Sean had been the first to reach the end of his rope, and Vic thought she'd left enough slack to swing herself to safety. Maybe she'd been wrong about that too, like she apparently had about so many other things…

Vic may have been content to sign the divorce papers ("Got a pen?"), but she certainly wasn't stupid. She'd read the document carefully and everything had seemed to be in order; Sean had clearly wanted the process to involve as little time and argument as possible, even going so far as to provision for a lump sum payment to settle their joint bills and offset the loss of his larger income until Vic had an opportunity to adjust to her new circumstances. It all looked great on paper. Didn't it always? And yet here she was now six months after signing the decree, and she still hadn't seen a fucking dime.

She should have expected to lose the house. That was kind of a no-brainer, seeing as it belonged to Newett and their employee who had resided there was off on some Jed Clampett crossed with _Quigley Down Under_ bullshit adventure amidst the pipelines and off-shore rigs of Western Australia. Maybe she _had_ expected it— but so much had happened all at once with Branch and Barlow and Walt leaving her in charge, the time had flown and the mail had piled up and bills were the last thing she was interested in dealing with after a grueling series of sixteen hour shifts.

Before she knew it two months had gone by like two days and Walt was in her kitchen looking sheepish and awkward with her eviction notice in his hand. If she hadn't been so shell-shocked at the time she would have asked him if there were any other papers he needed to deliver while he was at it. Collections notices? Unpaid parking tickets? Lawsuits for use of excessive force? Seemed likely enough considering the type of mood she'd been in.

Instead of dishing out her standard helping of sass Vic had quietly started tossing items into the cardboard boxes Walt provided in a daze, ashamed at how excited she initially was to think he had dropped by for a social visit when that clearly wasn't on his mind whatsoever. How much more pathetic could she possibly get? Walt had helped as much as possible, but he was clearly not comfortable with the intimacy of the task and mainly hovered and paced between the kitchen and the front foyer. They'd spoken to each other only when necessary, and Vic had found herself wondering how and when everything had gone so very, very wrong.

The fact that Walt had gone to his daughter and asked if Vic could stay for a while initially gave her hope that he must at least care on some level. In the end, she wound up thinking maybe he just felt sorry for her. If there was one good thing she could say about the situation, it was that she had discovered that she liked Cady a lot more than she had known or expected. They had developed a tentative friendship, something Vic hadn't even realized she sort of needed at the time, although there were moments where the slightly younger woman would exhibit habits and mannerisms that reminded Vic so much of Walt that it was almost painful to be around her.

A couple weeks ago Vic had finally asked Cady for advice regarding the situation with Sean. She'd done a fair amount of her own research, but had concluded that it was extremely foolhardy to have a lawyer as a roommate and not ask for legal counsel when it was sorely needed. Vic knew she was stubborn to the point of irrationality sometimes. She was trying to be better; there were a lot of ways in which she wanted to be better, and this had seemed like a step in the right direction.

Cady was of the opinion that Vic would be well within her rights to bring suit against her ex-husband, as he was clearly in breach of what was set out in the divorce agreement they had both endorsed. Vic had expressed her concerns that Sean would fight dirty if they ended up in court, and that was where the conversation had turned a bit awkward.

* * *

 _The kitchen was bright and cheerful as the two women ate a light dinner at the small table in the corner of the room, both clearly dressed for a night in with a mostly-full glass of wine beside each of their plates._

" _What do you mean? He signed the papers just like you did. In terms of the law he's on very shaky ground to argue against that."_

 _Vic poked half-heartedly at the spinach salad on her plate. "He—" She sighed, putting the fork down and letting her hands drop into her lap. "Sean believes I was unfaithful while we were married. It may not be a valid legal factor but I'm afraid he'll try to make a big deal out of it."_

 _Eyes widening, Cady chewed and swallowed slowly before making any response. "Wow. But you weren't. Were you? Unfaithful, I mean. Not that it's any of my business…"_

 _In Vic's eyes it seemed fair to say she had forfeited her right to privacy when she'd done what she had with Eamonn here in Cady's house, but she kept that particular opinion to herself. "No, never. But I guess I can see why he'd think so." She gave a small shrug._

" _But… with who?" Cady and Vic both knew that there wasn't exactly a wide selection of eligible bachelors in Durant. Of course they were talking about adultery here, so maybe that widened the field somewhat in Cady's shrewd estimation._

 _What the fuck was she supposed to say? 'My husband thought I was boning your dad, Cady.' Yeah, that sounded all sorts of classy. Twisting the cloth napkin in her lap, Vic avoided eye contact. "Umm. Well, you see—" She trailed off, brain irrevocably snagged on sharp mental images of how she and Walt had been, before._

 _There must have been a flavor to her silence or some brief and broken clue on her face, because Cady winced in what might have been a blend of sympathy and contact embarrassment as she realized exactly what Vic's now-ex-husband had thought._

" _Oh."_

" _Yeah."_

 _That said it all, really._

 _Cady recovered quickly, insisting that she could help Vic through the process and assuring her that it was highly unlikely that the case would ever reach any type of public forum. Then, the two had turned their attention back to their respective salads, pointedly ignoring the elephant with a badge and cowboy hat that was most assuredly present in the room with them._

* * *

Sighing, Vic walked across the deserted office and righted the wastebasket. She bent down, retrieving the one crumpled piece of paper that had spilled onto the hardwood floor. Wandering back to her desk, motion in the street below caught Vic's eye and she peered out the window to see Walt crossing over to where the Bronco was parked under the steel grey sky at the edge of the square. His head was down, what looked like one of Ruby's ubiquitous post-it notes clutched between the fingers of his left hand. Vic felt a mixture of anger and sorrow as she watched him, tears welling in her eyes unwanted and unbidden at the idea that Walt must hold her in such contempt that he couldn't even be bothered to pass through the office to let her know he was going out.

Their relationship had not improved after the 'incident' with Zachary and Dr. Monaghan at Walt's cabin. If anything, the rift between them had worsened. Walt would probably talk about what had happened when hell froze over, not that she would ask. Vic had already humiliated herself once in a poorly-handled attempt to draw him out, and a volatile combination of pride and fear was firmly in place to ensure that the disastrous scene in a litter-strewn alleyway would never be repeated. That moment had been the culmination of weeks filled with mislaid trust, avoidance, bad timing, and a mutual inability or unwillingness to let each other in. The end result was crushing, devastating, painful enough to make Vic doubt absolutely everything that had come before and all but abandon her hopes for the future.

So… why was she still here? She asked it of herself every day, but as with so many other questions in the recent past Vic knew that she was afraid of the answer.

Ruby had left early to pick up one of her grandkids from school and Ferg was out at an increasingly productive speed trap by the casino, so now it looked like she was left alone with the silence and the papers from Sean's lawyer indicating that her fears about the complications of this process were not unfounded. Shoving them back into the manila envelope they'd arrived in, Vic set them aside and returned her attention to the hopefully mind-numbing stack of departmental paperwork strewn across the desk beside her laptop.

She was still struggling through some boring reports that needed to be signed off on when the office door swung open half an hour later. Expecting one of the station's usual occupants, Vic didn't even raise her head until greeted by a delicate but oddly nettlesome throat-clearing noise.

Blonde hair. Shapeless office-casual garments. Pinched, disapproving expression. _Shit. Donna Monaghan._

"What do you want?" Vic absently contemplated whether she should have tried for a bit more of a polite tone, but there'd been no love lost between the two of them even before the good doctor had turned out to be a bad doctor and was stripped of her license to practice. Vic didn't have the energy left to pretend.

Donna took a few steps forward, gliding through the swinging half-door and standing just inside the main office. Her features were drawn, dark circles evident beneath her pointedly disinterested eyes. "Is the sheriff here?"

"Nope."

She wasn't in the mood to be forthcoming, not that she had any idea where Walt had gone anyway. Her clipped answer sent her on a brief trip down memory lane, to the Red Pony on that day where Henry commented on her apparent adoption of Walt's speech patterns. The older woman hadn't moved, and Vic noticed for the first time that she was carrying a green folder in her hand.

"Is there something else you need? As you can see I'm the only one here, with plenty of actual police work that needs my attention."

That sweeping statement may have been a bit over the top, but Vic couldn't bring herself to care. Donna nodded and made a face, a bitchy face of the sort that women use on each other when they know that the other one is being a bitch, too.

"I just came to drop this off. It's a more complete statement about… everything. I felt I owed it to Zachary to set things right before he wakes up."

"You mean _if_ he wakes up?" Vic knew it was a low blow, but she resented Donna's implication that Zachary had been the only one affected by her actions.

Donna flinched. "The doctors seem to think he will. Maybe I should just come back some other time."

How about no? No fucking way was Vic going to let her come back and try this wounded martyr act out on Walt. Not a chance. "You can leave it with me." She stood, reaching out in invitation. "What is it with the women in this county and their inability to operate a fax machine, anyway?" That rhetorical question had come screaming out of nowhere, born from the memory of Lizzie Ambrose employing a similar pretense to throw herself into Walt's path. At least with Lizzie what you saw was exactly what you got.

"I don't really feel comfortable with you reading this." They each had a hand on the folder now, with Donna reluctant to release her grip.

Vic shook her head and emitted an unamused huff of laughter. "Well then I guess it's a good thing I don't give enough of a shit about anything you could possibly have to say to bother looking at it."

Maybe it was out of surprise, or perhaps the tone had been sufficiently threatening, but Donna dropped her hand and allowed Vic to take possession of the institutional-looking folder. Her gaze flickered from Vic's face to the item in her hand, looking uncertain.

"I'll leave it on his desk, scout's honor."

"Fine." She turned to go, shooting a look over her shoulder with two more words as a grudging after thought. "Thank you."

No 'You're welcome' was forthcoming, and Vic stood in the middle of the office tapping her foot and chewing the inside of her lip for several long moments after the disgraced psychiatrist took her leave. She hated herself for wanting to open the folder and read every word, was mortified by the impulse to search within and between the lines for non-existent clues about Donna and Walt's relationship or his feelings or a half dozen other topics that Vic wished deep down in the abyss of her existence that she could lie to herself and say she didn't care about.

The folder stayed closed as Vic wandered slowly into Walt's empty and dimly lit office, cast in a lonely bluish hue by the clouded and fading illumination of the cool fall day. Feeling despondent and more isolated than ever she carelessly dropped the folder where she knew he would find it and sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk, the very same one she'd occupied on that fateful evening when Walt had told her he wanted her to stay.

Stay for what? For _this_? If she had known it was going to be this way… who was she kidding? Even if she _had_ known, she still would have stayed, maybe hoping that things would be different this time around. She'd have stayed a hundred times over, just because he said he wanted her to.

She peered at the clock on the wall, which read 6:12pm. Hopefully Ferg would return soon to cover the night shift, so she could head back to Cady's and wash the literal and metaphorical grime of the shittier-than-usual day off her skin before heading over to the Red Pony. Vic's life might be a wreck and she certainly didn't seem to have many friends in this town, but at least she had one thing left to look forward to— the weekly girl-talk therapy sessions with her unlikely and entirely platonic drinking buddy, Eamonn O'Neill.

* * *

Seems like Vic has a lot of thoughts. Will her and Walt ever get a chance to connect again? Will Sean fork over the damn money so that Vic can pay her bills and move out of Cady's house? Will Eamonn order a Piña Colada now that he appears to be Vic's new gal pal? Let me know your theories!


	3. Chapter 3

I was hoping to update this twice while I was on vacation, but got a bit busier than expected in the latter half of the week. More will be along soon! Thanks everyone for the feedback on the first two chapters. I may not have managed to respond to every comment individually as usual, but each of them were most sincerely appreciated!

* * *

 _ **Dreamcatcher  
** **Part III**_

The space between his muscles and his bones ached the next time he saw her. It was a pain that was dull but deeper than skin, far too complicated to be encompassed by any sort of visual surface abrasion.

Walt had always been drawn to Vic, and that hadn't changed even as he allowed their relationship to deteriorate before his eyes. He had convinced himself that distance was the only way to keep her safe, and to stop himself from losing perspective and missing the clues next time someone else was in trouble. He'd been so focused on her, back then, it would be a lie to say he didn't blame himself for what happened to Branch.

Had he abandoned the younger man to his own devices after the incident where he'd dared to lay a hand on Vic? Walt thought he'd been supporting Branch, following through with the investigation regarding David Ridges even when it seemed too outlandish to be true, but had his motives in doing so merely served his own selfish needs?

Talking about this with the therapist was somewhat counterproductive, as it always brought them back around to Vic— a topic he'd been even less willing to breach since having that dream. It wasn't a pleasant feature of Walt's current existence, all his instincts screaming for him to get closer while the seemingly impenetrable wall of logic he'd built around himself insisted that he push her away. Vic had found a path around his defenses anyhow, seeping into his subconscious and soaking into unfathomable parts of him like rain. He couldn't control the way she made him feel, and all those tendons and ligaments that were ready and waiting to spring his body into action were sore from the force of holding fast.

A call had come in just after lunchtime. Having received the details from Ruby Vic had evidently determined that it was nothing she couldn't handle on her own and elected to answer it solo instead of asking him to go along or, indeed, bothering to inform him at all. As a matter of fact, Walt never became aware that his deputy had left the building for anything other than a trip down the street to the Busy Bee until he heard a gasp and panicked exhortations from Ruby drifting through his half-open office door. There were some banging noises, a few distinctly male grumbles, and the sound of the jail cell being slammed shut and locked.

"I'm fine, Ruby. Just…" Vic's voice was a loud whisper. "Stop fussing, okay? It's nothing."

He was out into the main station room in no time flat, and he could tell even from looking at the back of his deputy's head that she was well past irritated and likely cruising in the fast lane toward really pissed off. There was a surly, stocky, leather-vested man occupying the lone jail cell, swaying from one foot to the other in a possibly drunken rhythm. One of Vic's hands was up near her forehead, held there as though the whole situation was giving her a headache, and Ruby was fixing her with a wide-eyed look.

Walt crossed his arms over his chest. "What's nothing?"

It seemed like it was sheer reflex that caused Vic to turn toward him, and she breathed out a curse word as his eyes landed on the bloody rag being held against her left temple just above the tiny scar near her eyebrow which served as a constant reminder of the events at Chance Gilbert's place. She lifted the cloth away, revealing a small but energetically bleeding laceration. The side of Vic's face was streaked with blood, and there was some matted in the blonde hair by her ear.

Uncrossing his arms, Walt took a step forward without even thinking. "What the hell happened?"

Vic rolled her eyes and sighed heavily, returning pressure to the injury. "This jackass and his four bonehead biker buddies were getting a bit rowdy after a few too many early bird tequilas down at that new Mexican place."

She walked past him as if that was a satisfactory explanation, presumably on her way to the reading room for some fresh first aid supplies. He followed close on her heels. "You wanna explain how you ended up with that?"

Turning on the taps, she leaned over the sink and briefly caught his eye in the small mirror above it. "Not really, no."

Her tone brooked no argument, but the twist of dread in the bottom of his stomach was unwilling to accept that as an answer. He perched his hands on his hips. "Vic."

"They didn't like having their fun interrupted, so this uncooperative shithead decided to throw a pint glass at me. It shattered against the wall and one of the shards hit me. Fuck…" Wetting down the corner of a clean hand towel, Vic began to dab at the blood on the side of her face in jerky motions.

Walt shook his head from side to side, trying to un-muddle his thoughts.

 _I don't make my uncle Al's lasagna for uncooperative shitheads who don't put out._

Her back to him, those echoing words, the surge of adrenaline when he saw that she was injured, it all combined to make him want to do things that he knew he absolutely couldn't. To distract himself, he stepped further into the room and reached up on the shelf for the government mandated first aid kit.

"Why didn't you call for back up? That place is right down the street, I could have been there in two minutes."

He grasped her shoulder, feeling her spine stiffen as he gently but firmly turned her to face him.

"It wasn't a big deal, Walt."

She flinched as he took the damp towel from her, setting it aside as he rummaged for the antiseptic wipes.

"You said there were five of them."

It was almost impressive, the way Vic managed to avoid eye contact even as Walt carefully swiped the medicated fabric around the injured area. He could smell her hair, fresh and enticing but not overwhelmingly feminine, as she tilted her head back to make his job easier. It was a weak reverberation of how they used to smooth the way for each other, a ghostly memory of their instinctive partnership.

"They were idiots."

Vic made a small pained noise as Walt wiped the blood from the edges of the small gash. With the worst cleared away, he was able to take a swab and apply some topical ointment.

"I should have been with you."

It didn't come out sounding like he'd wanted it to. It came out gruff and angry, and he wasn't sure if that sentiment was directed at her or toward himself. He was trying to say one thing, but somewhere between his brain and his mouth it transformed into something else. For a moment, Walt hoped that Vic wouldn't notice. His hopes in this case, just like so many others in his recent span of existence, were disappointed.

"What the hell for? You already cut me deeper than they ever could."

His fingers froze in the middle of applying the butterfly closure. A slow wire of deer-in-the-headlights eye contact commenced, both of them obviously aware of what had just been summoned into the air between them. Vic chewed the inside of her lip, eyes flickering over Walt's features and lingering on his mouth for longer than would be considered normal or appropriate. It lit a spark in him, fanned the flames of hope that maybe— just maybe— she still felt it, too.

Walt leaned closer, one hand propped on the edge of the sink and the other tentatively folding around her wrist in a loose clutch. "Vic, I'm—"

"No. I can't do this."

Vic jerked away from Walt's grasp and slid her lithe form out from between his body and the sink. Walt was left with the image of himself in the mirror, breathing rapidly and wishing he could stop the physical reactions of his body from telegraphing the symptoms of what was plainly still lodged in his heart.

* * *

He showed up at the door that night without knowing what he was planning to say or do. He told himself he just wanted to check on Vic, to make sure she was okay and her injury was properly cared for. There was a level of stubbornness that Walt knew he had met and exceeded, drowning out the little voice that told him that his actions were awkward, potentially inflammatory, and pathetically transparent.

Removing his hat and rubbing at the hair just above the collar of his jacket, Walt raised his hand to knock at the door. It appeared that his daughter and his deputy were home; the lights were on inside, and both Vic's truck and Cady's Jeep were parked outside. Before his closed fist could meet with the surface of the door, it swung open to reveal Vic. She jumped at the sight of him, lips parting in momentary shock, obviously not anticipating his presence there.

The butterfly bandage, now protected by a skin colored band-aid, was barely noticeable in the overall scheme of her appearance. Her hair fell in loose golden curls, the type that looked so natural but took women hours to achieve. She was wearing makeup, a fact which was significant in and of itself without taking into account the perfectly smoky eyes and pouting pink lips.

Vic tilted her head to the side, one hand on her denim-clad hip with the fingers splayed over the form-fitting material of her front pocket. Walt realized he had been staring, and the eye-catching but tasteful v-neck of her thin black sweater wasn't helping matters. Her eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Hey," he hazarded.

Pressing her lips together, Vic recovered from her initial surprise. "Hey. You have dinner plans with Cady or something? I was just leaving, so I'll be out of your way." She brushed some hair away from her cheek, twisting to call over her shoulder. "Cady, your dad is here!"

Walt shook his head, palming the crown of his hat with one hand as he twisted the brim with the other. "No, actually… I came to make sure you were alright."

"I'm fine. Hence the fact that I'm going out." She stepped across the threshold and circumnavigated him with two agile strides, revealing heeled ankle-boots which matched the familiar whiskey-hued leather jacket gripped in her right hand.

One of his legs splayed out as he adjusted his stance to mirror hers, frustration likely evident. "Vic, I think we need to—"

She looked at her wrist, doubtless just as aware as he was that she wasn't wearing a watch. "Well would you look at that? I'm gonna be late if I don't hurry. See you later, Walt."

Her heels clicked loudly on the pavement as she walked away from him, yet again.

"Dad?" As the tail lights of Vic's truck faded into the night, Cady appeared in the doorway.

There was no point in trying to justify himself, no honest way to explain his presence away. He hated himself for addressing his own daughter like she was witness to some kind of crime. "Where is she going?"

Cady fixed him with a sad smile, crossing her arms over her chest in a way eerily reminiscent of his own mannerisms. For a moment he thought she might not dignify his question with an answer, and he really wouldn't have blamed her.

"Well considering Durant's nightlife options on a Thursday basically amount to the Red Pony or the Mexican cantina where she got sliced earlier, I will venture a guess and assume Vic is on her way to the Pony." Her raised eyebrows communicated judgement, but without the edge of hostility he might have deserved.

"Thanks, Punk." He turned on his heel and stalked back to the Bronco before the tide of his daughter's opinion had a chance to turn against him.

Walt knew he couldn't follow Vic anywhere in his agitated temperamental state. He didn't want to go home, and obviously the Red Pony— where he might have otherwise gone to blow off a little steam— was off limits. He headed back to his stalwart refuge, the sheriff's station, and entered his darkened office through the private door.

Slumping into his chair, Walt leaned his head back and tried to pull the reins on a mind that was more unquiet than any time in recent memory. It was such a mess, mostly of his own making, and all he could manage to see was that image of Vic with her perfect hair and makeup on her way to somewhere or something that unambiguously did not include him. He fidgeted in the chair, unable to get comfortable, leaning forward with his palms splayed on top of some neglected paperwork.

It was barely seven o'clock, but the combination of emotional exhaustion and brain-beating denial caused Walt to fall out of consciousness with his forehead pressed against the surface of his desk...

* * *

 _Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can_ _'_ _t seem to find it._

A blonde ponytail whips to one side, pulled high and tight with just a few wisps escaping at the nape of a slender neck as she stands in front of the sink filling up the kettle.

 _W_ _hy does it need to be blue? It's only fucking traffic court anyway._

The tan cotton of her shirt is familiar and comforting as he watches the toned planes of her back shift below it, his fingers tingling with sense memory of the warm and silky expanses hidden within.

 _It doesn't have to be blue but it should be new— SOMEONE gave the mayor's son a debatable speeding ticket accompanied by what could be construed as verbal abuse last week, and I've got to save face for the Absaroka Sheriff's Department._

He can see her smile through the back of her head. He isn't sure how he knows it's there, but he does. He longs to kiss that smile right off her face.

 _I_ _'_ _m so sorry._

She doesn't sound sorry at all. She turns around, leaning back against the edge of the sink with a brief flash of teeth and the devil in her eyes.

 _Yo_ _u'll never have a chance of taking over my job when I retire if you keep causing so much trouble._

She reaches forward and digs her fingers into the space between his jeans and his belt buckle, tugging his unresisting body toward her. The unspoken message is that she LIKES making trouble, and has no intention of changing her ways.

 _I think I know how to make it up to you._

One slender hand blazes a path from his breastbone, down his naked torso to the decorated silver clasp. A hot, open-mouthed, blatantly suggestive kiss is placed just beneath his belly button as she drops to her knees, and he knows his surrender is complete.

 _Well, if you insist…_

* * *

Every nerve tingled as Walt jerked awake, unable or unwilling to push the images away. He bit back a growl, fighting the wild impulses and pressing his palm against the traitorously throbbing erection inside his jeans. The clock on the wall told him that it was just after nine o'clock now, and with a long night of myriad torments laid out before him he could envision no other option but to see with his own eyes. Snatching his hat off the coat rack, Walt charged out the door and down the station stairs, set on a breakneck course for the Red Pony.

* * *

Oh deary me, Walt is putting himself through the wringer and Vic isn't exactly helping. Of course, after their talk in the alleyway who can really blame her? What will Walt find at the Red Pony? Will he dump a pitcher of sangria over Eamonn's head if Vic is confiding in him? And just what was Vic thinking about while Walt was patching up her cut, anyway? Tune in next time to find out… :D


	4. Chapter 4

Hey, all! Still trying to keep up with my approximately once a week posting schedule. The story didn't progress as far as I planned in this chapter, but honestly I'm in no hurry here and I hope you aren't either.

I took a little detour to Eamonn's perspective in the first part of this chapter, so I will be interested to see how people respond to his point of view. Thank you for continuing to share your comments with me, I love reading and responding to the feedback!

* * *

 _ **Dreamcatcher  
**_ _ **Part IV**_

Eamonn

There had been many times in the past few months where he had wondered what it was about the man.

Sure, he knew that Sheriff Longmire of Absaroka County was something of a local legend. Walt's daring exploits and occasionally unusual methods of achieving justice had been recounted throughout the surrounding counties, including Eamonn's own Cumberland, since long before the unexceptional and unsuspecting Deputy O'Neill arrived on the scene.

As a matter of fact, Eamonn had been almost disappointed when Sheriff Wilkins had loaned him out only to discover that the reason Absaroka needed support was that Longmire himself was out of commission on voluntary leave. The tale of Walt avenging his wife's killer in some sort of blood-soaked old west style standoff along with his subsequent exoneration by the FBI had spread through Cumberland's deputies like wildfire, and Eamonn was almost certain that the only reason Jim chose to send him to help their neighboring county was because he was the only one in the office who didn't outright beg for the chance to go.

Eamonn's disappointment was lessened somewhat once his paperwork was sorted and he arrived for his first day on the job only to meet Deputy Victoria Moretti, essentially the acting sheriff during her boss's voluntary absence. Vic, as she insisted he call her, had a reputation of her own both as Walt's de facto partner and as a bit of a hard ass in her own right. Eamonn could now confirm that the latter was true both figuratively and, he was unable to avoid noticing, literally.

Working with Vic had been simultaneously easier and more difficult than Eamonn ever could have expected. There was no doubt she knew her job inside and out, but there was a vulnerability beneath the surface of her that he couldn't quite puzzle through at first. He learned details of her story in dribs and drabs, from overheard exchanges between Ruby and Ferg and variably caustic remarks made by Vic herself.

There was her recent divorce, something about a 'crazy motherfucker with a baseball bat' which Eamonn eventually understood as a veiled reference to Walt Longmire's somewhat mysterious takedown of known radical Chance Gilbert, the death of Branch Connally, and the apparent 'shitstorm' that followed.

Also, Vic's eyebrow twitched almost every time Walt was mentioned, but Eamonn didn't think it was prudent to point it out when she had both an obvious tell _and_ a reputation as the best shot in three counties.

And that was what Eamonn found himself wondering most about, even now as worn out twenty year old country songs blared from the speakers at the surprisingly busy Red Pony. Peering across at Vic, looking far too attractive to be frowning so deeply with her head propped up against one palm as she twirled the straw in her third whiskey sour, Eamonn wondered exactly what it was about Walt that kept a woman like this in his thrall no matter how capriciously or indifferently he treated her.

For his own part, Eamonn didn't care about his collateral losses. It was Walt's department and he could do as he pleased— if that included dismissing a loaner deputy from another county in a convoluted fit of jealousy? So be it. He'd seen his own boss back in Cumberland do worse for less scrupulous reasons.

At first he'd assumed it was a one-sided attraction on the part of the older sheriff toward his nubile younger deputy, even if Vic _had_ talked about her boss an awful lot while he was gone. Eamonn had realized he was very, very wrong in his assumption even before Vic revealed that she'd used their one night stand as ammunition in her ongoing war of attrition with Walt. He'd probably realized it deep down before their clothes had even hit the floor, but in some aspects of life hindsight is most definitely 20/20.

He probably should have understood sooner why being in a room with Walt and Vic at the same time was like waiting for an unpredictably programmed bomb to go off. The tension had been obvious from the get go, but Eamonn erroneously figured there might be some sort of professional beef between them or that the heavy awkwardness was related to Walt's absence and Vic's different leadership style during that time. He'd even asked Ferg about it once. _"Are they always like this?"_ With the only answer being a wide-eyed non-committal nod/shake of the head.

Returning his mind to present matters, Eamonn watched Vic absently stab at the cherry in the bottom of her glass.

"So, how are things?"

Eamonn knew Vic still met him because she needed someone to talk to, and she'd usually do so after a drink or two and some prompting. He was sure he'd never worked this hard on a relationship of any kind with so little in the way of direct positive return, but in spite of his better judgement he just _liked_ her. She didn't seem to have many friends in Wyoming, and now that he appreciated the circumstances a bit better he could see why she couldn't exactly confide in her roommate of all people…

Vic made a quiet 'tsk' sound. "What _things_?"

"The same things we always talk about." He shrugged, peeling at the label of his one half-full light beer. He figured he might as well cut to the chase, since Vic didn't seem in the mood for small talk. "Figure anything out with Walt yet?"

She rolled her eyes. "Are you asking because you hope I'm gonna sleep with you again?"

"No," he posited. The idea might have a certain appeal, but Eamonn was smart enough to know that any sexual encounter between them at this point in time would be both meaningless and inadvisable. "I'm asking about Walt because that's always what's bothering you when you're like this."

If she objected to his phrasing, Vic didn't show it. Wouldn't most women have a passive aggressive comeback? "When I'm like _what_?" As a man Eamonn had made that mistake enough times to know what to expect. But Victoria Moretti had shown herself well capable of defying many of his expectations. Instead of firing off a sassy retort she took a slow sip of her rapidly depleting drink, huffed out a breath, and delivered her reply.

"Walt doesn't give a shit about me."

Eamonn held the opinion that Vic's assessment was likely far from the truth, judging from what he had experienced and even from the spotty second hand reports provided by Vic during these weekly drinking sessions. There was something in her tone that begged him not to push the issue tonight— a melancholy that skirted a bit too close to the fine line bordering on maudlin after three fairly potent drinks. Maybe this time, talking about it really wasn't the best solution.

A subject change might do the trick. He'd noticed the small band-aid on Vic's forehead. A minor injury seemed like a safe topic among colleagues in the law enforcement profession. "What happened to your head?"

One of her hands reached up, fingers brushing over the bandage as if she had forgotten it was there. Her eyes darted to the side and misted over, and Eamonn wondered how he'd managed to say the wrong thing yet again.

"I don't want to talk about it, okay? Let's just have another drink."

That didn't sound like a good idea either, but as long as one of them was sober it didn't seem like his place to stop her if that was what she wanted. Eamonn just couldn't win tonight, a suspicion confirmed in his mind by the sudden appearance of Sheriff Longmire himself looming a few scant feet away out of Vic's sight behind her right shoulder.

They were seated along one wall of the large, noisy main bar, adjacent to the narrower area leading to the restrooms and entrance. As a fairly decent cop (he thought) it immediately occurred to Eamonn that the taller man could have been just around the corner this whole time listening to their conversation. And if the thunderous but oddly wounded expression on his face was any indication, Walt had heard every word.

* * *

Why did Eamonn have to ask about her head? After three Red-Pony-strength cocktails, Vic had almost managed to forget about the bittersweet thrill of Walt's fingers on her skin as he doctored her wound that afternoon. Wasn't that the whole point of drinking? To relax and erase the worries of the day? She briefly also wished that she could erase the confused swarm of feelings that she still had for Walt despite her better efforts, but was just as quick to dismiss the idea. Vic had made a promise to be honest with herself, and in some ways the pain was better than pretending those emotions weren't there… that was Walt's MO, not hers.

She knew he had been trying to talk to her, earlier in the reading room and later at Cady's place, and she was unsure whether it was fear of continued rejection that caused her to deflect his attempts or panic that Walt might want something… else. When he'd leaned into her after taking care of her cut, it had seemed like it. She could almost still feel the gentle burn of his big hand wrapping around her wrist as those blue eyes traveled over her face like he was searching for clues.

Clues to what? Her feelings? Her mental health? The likelihood that she might return the unintentional favor he'd done her that day with Nighthorse and sock him across the nose? As tempted as she may have been to react in such a way, Vic knew she could never intentionally hurt him. Not like that.

His nearness had paralyzed her, pure animal instinct triggering the fight or flight response that had her running from him once again. She'd played dumb at Cady's house, while simultaneously trying not to revel in the opportunity to let Walt wonder where she might be going. She'd tried making him jealous once already. That attempt had gone up in flames faster than Dr. Monaghan's stupid van, coincidentally at very close to the same time.

Usually she found comfort in these conversations with Eamonn. At least she got things off her chest, and he seemed to have a knack for calming her down. Eamonn had been a good friend to her in spite of her past treatment of him, never pushing to redefine the status of their relationship and giving her space to work through things on her own. Tonight she was too agitated to talk about any of the things that were weighing on her mind, and while the alcohol didn't seem to be helping she felt an inexplicable craving for it just the same.

Speaking of which, hadn't she just suggested they get another drink? Flipping a strand of hair away from her shoulder, Vic used the straw to suck up the remains of her whiskey sour before plucking the cherry out from between the ice chunks by its stem and catching the sweet fruit between her teeth. Eamonn looked distracted with something behind her, so she turned slightly to see if she could catch the overtaxed barmaid's eye or if she would need to make her way up to the bar.

As Vic's head swiveled, an object encroached and blocked her view. For the first time that night she wondered if maybe she had drank too much too quickly, on an empty stomach at that. She was feeling a bit lightheaded, and it took several moments to focus in on the shapes and textures in front of her- longer than it should have to recognize the gleam of tawdry neon as it glanced over the smooth surface of an all too familiar belt buckle.

Eyes widening in recognition her gaze trailed up the line of pearl buttons, climbed the weathered neck, and dragged along the edge of the stubbled jaw until she reached the fierce and rugged summit of Walt's face.

She swallowed the cherry.

Hands on his hips, Walt peered down at her intently. The dim lighting cast shadows over his features, especially from this angle, and although she could see his eyes she was having difficulty identifying his exact demeanor. It could have something to do with the alcohol impairing her ability to judge facial expressions, or maybe he was just playing it close to the chest like he so often did.

It made Vic feel guilty when she realized she'd practically forgotten Eamonn was there until he spoke.

"Hey, Sheriff. I was just going to grab us another drink. Do you, umm—?"

The guilt increased as Walt pointedly ignored the younger man's attempt at politeness. Observing the three empty tumblers in front of her, the corner of Walt's mouth twitched downward in what was probably disapproval. He reached over to grasp her by the elbow, gently but firmly tugging upward. His voice was gruff and emphatic, and Vic hated the pleasurable shiver it sent down her spine.

"Come on, I'm taking you home."

* * *

Oh dear, I'm not so sure Vic will react favorably to Walt's approach here, especially with three whiskeys rapidly metabolizing through her system. What do you guys think?

I feel a bit bad for Eamonn— he didn't get a pitcher of sangria or even half a light beer dumped over his head (just yet), but I'm not sure any of the participants are going to come out of this little confab unscathed. I guess only time will tell. :-0

Leave me a review and I'll make sure you get an extra cherry in your whiskey sour! I have connections...


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry for the delay with this. Updates may be sporadic for a while, as the busiest season at work has begun and my schedule will be somewhat erratic. Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review, those comments and encouragements stoke the flames of inspiration! The feedback is appreciated more than you could know.

* * *

 **Dreamcatcher  
** **Part V**

" _Walt doesn't give a shit about me."_

It isn't true. It never has been and it never will be. It couldn't be any _further_ from the truth no matter how bad of a job he'd done of showing it.

" _Are you asking because you hope I'm gonna sleep with you again?"_

Her tone possesses no teasing edge. It's weary, devoid of warmth, the opposite of what it should be when mentioning a supposed act of love.

" _I don't want to talk about it, okay? Let's just have another drink."_

Is this what she has with Eamonn? Is this what defines their 'relationship'?

Is this what he's driven her to by pushing her away?

In a strange moment of clarity Walt realized that he was assigning himself too much importance, assuming that Vic's actions and behaviors must revolve around him. During his therapy sessions he had discovered that much of his behavior toward her had been born from an unregulated and, at the time, unrecognized selfishness. Seeing and understanding the depth of his own arrogance for what it was had not been easy.

He thought he'd been motivated by a desire to keep everyone safe, to do what was best for all of them. The truth was he'd been afraid— he hadn't known how to deal with his emotions or how to decipher hers, and things had snowballed alarmingly each time they both refused to talk to each other about anything. The shrink sessions might have helped Walt own up to his share of the responsibility, but that didn't mean he had a damn idea what to do about it.

This was the low they had achieved, his cowardice now extended to petty eavesdropping with his back against the appropriately dingy unfinished wood wall and Vic just around the corner still stubbornly resisting any opportunity to unburden herself.

Maybe doing anything was better than doing nothing.

Walt adjusted his hat and took a deep breath before steeling himself and rounding the corner. He got a brief look at Eamonn O'Neill's face before he was spotted, and the younger man appeared to be viewing Vic with some amount of trepidation. As he approached, he assumed that might be a result of the growing number of empty glasses in front of her. Even though he'd liked to have blamed Eamonn for letting Vic drink so much, Walt was smart enough to know that there were times where nobody 'let' his deputy do anything and thus Eamonn was likely just attempting to keep his head above water.

Henry wasn't behind the bar, which was normal for a Thursday night even when considering the fact that nothing his oldest friend did lately seemed to qualify as such… but that was a worry for another day. Cady hadn't been picking up shifts anymore, and everyone in town knew Jess had the most generous pouring hand. Three of whatever Vic had been knocking back might be as good as four or five measured by a more stringent method.

From what he had overheard Walt didn't think you could call what he was interrupting a 'date,' but who was he to judge? He'd blurred those lines badly enough himself at times in the past, with Donna and Lizzie and even probably with Vic herself. That night in Arizona came to mind, the way they walked to their rooms after dinner like awkward teenagers on a first date. All that had been missing was the good night kiss, and when Vic had knocked on the pass-thru that teenage part of Walt still held out hope that he might get it.

He had never stopped wanting that, and so much more besides, even after things reached their worst point and he made an art form out of pushing Vic away. There had been days where Walt had needed to maintain a white knuckle grip on his famous self-control to keep from pulling Vic against him and showing her everything, both before and after her divorce was finalized. But he couldn't. Not at the hospital after Chance, not at the Red Pony after David Ridges. Not down by the river after Branch or in his office after Barlow, and most definitely not anywhere after Donna… as if Vic would have let him near her once the truth of that situation was revealed.

Maybe he needed to resign himself to the fact that they had ruined their chance, that the deep connection and the tender heat that had grown between them was all for nothing in the end. And yet, he'd once assured Henry in this very building that he wouldn't back down from a fight. Why should this be any different? Even if they could never be together the way they were in the dreams he'd been having of late, wasn't their friendship, their partnership, worth saving?

Vic's head turned just as Walt arrived beside the table, and he resisted the urge to swallow heavily as her eyes climbed his body like a slow caress. They locked gazes and for a few seconds Vic's defenses were down and Walt felt that buried connection thrumming between them. It was like they were in their own world, a wild country he wished he could lose himself in the act of exploring.

The trance was broken by Eamonn's cautiously diplomatic voice offering a drink, and Walt could see Vic's walls slamming back into place like a switch had been flipped. He didn't want that, couldn't let her hide from him if there was a chance she might finally let him in. In that moment all Walt could think of were those few seconds of openness, a softening of Vic's demeanor that he hoped wasn't only caused by the libations that she had consumed. It was obvious that she wasn't fit to drive after three strong cocktails, so his course of action seemed clear.

Before Walt even realized what he was doing, Vic's sweater-covered elbow was warm under his hand as he urged her to rise from the chair. "Come on, I'm taking you home."

At first Vic was compliant, rising to her feet and absently leaning into his touch. Walt responded by solidifying his grip, cradling her elbow with his fingers fanned out along the underside of her forearm. As he reached around to retrieve her jacket from the back of the chair she stiffened, eyes darting from his face over to Eamonn and back again.

Shrugging away from his touch, Vic hugged herself. "No. I'm not ready to leave." Her pink lips pressed together, eyes wide and a bit glassy but still more than able to focus. "Eamonn, how about that drink?"

Walt's attention was fixed on Vic but one of his hands gestured toward the younger man still seated at the table, fingers fanned out in a halting manner. "I really don't think you need another."

"Well I don't really care what the fuck you think!"

Jaw clenching, Walt reminded himself that they were not on duty and Vic's reaction was therefore well outside the parameters of insubordination. Vic tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at Eamonn, who glanced between sheriff and deputy and showed no sign of making a move.

"Fine, I'll get it myself."

Both men watched as Vic stalked off toward the bar, heeled boots lengthening the line of her body as she sidestepped a pair of off-duty ranch hands with only the slightest hint of a wobble. Walt pried his eyes away and slid them over to Eamonn.

"How long did it take her to drink those?" He pointed to the empty tumblers with one long finger.

Eamonn looked at his watch. "A little over an hour? I tried to talk her into dinner but she said she already ate."

"Vic took a blow to the head today, you know. She probably shouldn't be drinking at all." Walt frowned, craning his neck to pick out Vic's distinctive blonde hair through the crowd around the bar.

"I didn't know, and she wouldn't talk to me about it." Eamonn placed the flats of his hands on the table and rose slowly. "Walt, you must know I wouldn't have let her drive like that."

Walt did know— but it didn't stop the jealousy from flaring in his gut at the idea of Eamonn taking care of Vic, steadying her with his touch, being the one there for her to lean on in her vulnerable state of inebriation. "You better let me take it from here."

Raising both hands, palms facing outward, Eamonn surrendered the point as if to say, _'_ _No way am I putting myself in the middle of this._ _'_ What actually came out of his mouth was a far more neutral "Okay. Tell Vic to give me a call if she needs anything."

"I'm sure she'll appreciate that," Walt vocalized, although he was convinced that Eamonn caught the less than subtle undertone of _'_ _I won_ _'_ _t be relaying your message._ _'_

By the time Walt reached Vic's side at the leftmost end of the bar, she had made what appeared to be quick work of half an additional cocktail and the empty remains of Jess's famously potent house special shooter.

"I uhh, got your things." He held up the jacket and cellphone for Vic to see. She didn't generally carry a purse, and had her wallet perched next to her elbow on the bar.

"Whoop de freakin' do."

Her changeable irises looked greener than usual peering out from the smoky makeup, the whites standing out in the dim light as she executed one of those trademark eye rolls. She took a long sip of her drink through a pair of black cocktail straws.

Persisting, Walt mirrored her stance and leaned in. "You ready? I'll take you home."

"I don't have a home. I'm completely fucking homeless." A pained expression crossed her face. "Maybe you should just take me to the station and let me sleep in the cell."

Walt's forehead crinkled beneath the brim of his hat. "Don't say that," he began, pushing away the thought that he'd been planning to sleep in the jail himself. "Come on, I'll take you back to Cady's."

There was a wet sucking sound as Vic drained the last of the drink, and Walt watched her attentively as she dug for the cherry in the bottom of her glass. "Where's Eamonn?"

"He left." It shouldn't have hurt that she asked for Eamonn, but it did. It just _stung_ , no matter how much Walt realized that he was the one who had intruded regardless of the nature of Vic and Eamonn's meeting.

"Oh."

Clearing his throat, Walt took a chance and gently placed his hand in the small of Vic's back to guide her. "Let's go."

This time, she didn't resist.

* * *

"You don't have to walk me to the door, Walt. I'm fine."

"Gotta make sure you get inside alright."

They were both still stubborn to the last, but some things never do change.

The short ride back to Cady's had been tense and silent, with Vic staring out the window as Walt wondered whether she was angry with him or just too numbed out to start a conversation. She would barely speak to him when they were both sober, but sometimes a bit of alcohol could loosen the tongue. He missed talking to her, or at least listening since Vic generally produced most of the actual words.

Just before Vic reached the bottom of the front steps her boot caught on an uneven paving stone, and she pitched forward with a yelp of surprise. Without a second thought Walt reached out and wrapped his arms around her, preventing her impending face-first collision with the wooden stairs and pulling her safely back against him.

Vic was breathing heavily, fingers splayed atop Walt's forearms where they were wrapped firmly around her midsection. "Fuck," she whispered, "I think I need another drink."

Feeling a bit intoxicated himself Walt shifted, bowing his head so his lips were even with Vic's ear. "No you don't," he rumbled.

She turned in his arms, eyes slightly wide with the adrenaline and alcohol. Walt couldn't seem to do the sensible thing and let go, so he held on tight as a passing breeze ruffled Vic's already wilder than usual locks of blonde hair. This was getting dangerous…

"You're only nice to me when I'm drunk."

Closing the distance, Vic leaned her face into the side of Walt's neck as her hands rested against his shirt front. Walt's breath hitched, and he thought about that night by the river when he'd buried Vic's expired possum. How badly had he wanted to hold her then, just like this? Now that she was letting him, he was finding it hard to stop even though he knew he should.

He rubbed her back with one hand, resting his palm between her shoulder blades. "I'll be nicer, I promise."

Vic's form relaxed even further into him, hands traveling up and over his shoulders as her warm breath teased at the line of his jaw. The next words were barely audible, and Walt was almost certain she hadn't meant to speak them out loud.

"Maybe if I drink enough you'll love me back."

Heart beating like a kick drum, Walt pulled away just enough so he could see Vic's face. He brought one hand up to touch her cheek, falling into her dazed but inviting expression as those entrancing eyes glowed back at him in the moonlight.

"Vic. I—"

He never got to finish his sentence. The porch light switched on and their bodies sprung apart, gazes locked and chests heaving as Cady poked her head out the door to check if everything was alright. Vic recovered quickly, shooting Walt one last glance full of confused longing as she ascended the steps and entered the house. He himself was twisted up with anxiety, wondering just how intoxicated his deputy had actually been and what if any of this she would remember come morning.

Waving goodnight to Cady, Walt found himself left alone on the front walkway with the rest of his response to Vic's mind-bending declaration still lodged in his throat:

 _I already do. I have for a long time._

* * *

Hmmmm... well! What *will* Vic remember about this incident? And will Walt do that Walty thing that he does where he pretends everything is totally cool and normal while internally freaking out? Will Vic let him get away with it? And how much did Cady see, anyway? I think we all know she's smart enough to see that something is up.

I'm sure you're all terribly relieved that Eamonn escaped without having a Mai Tai or any other tropical concoction poured over his head. But hey, you never know. I'm still not sure how many chapters this story will have so there's still time!

Drop me a review and receive your choice of a Blue Hawaiian, a White Russian, or an Orange Julius! That last one is in there for the teetotalers... ;D


	6. Chapter 6

Had a bit of time today and wanted to get one more update out before I'm fully mired in holiday overtime. Hoping to maintain weekly updates if I can, but please bear with me! I may not have time right now to answer all of your reviews as I like to do, but please know that all the feedback is greatly appreciated. :)

* * *

 _Dreamcatcher  
_ _Part VI_

When she woke the next morning, Vic groaned and threw one arm across her face in delayed embarrassment.

It wasn't that she thought she did anything _wrong_ , so much as she was angry with herself for wanting to leave the bar with Walt even though he was acting like a jealous, overprotective asshole. She was even more pissed at herself because a deep and unregulated part of her enjoyed his behavior, up to and including the hazy memory of his arms wrapped around her in the dim light in front of the house.

And maybe that was the embarrassing part— how much she'd craved that physical contact and allowed herself to sink into Walt like the past six months since she'd signed her divorce papers and everything between them went to shit had never happened. Stretching her legs beneath the covers Vic reminded herself that she'd had sex exactly _once_ since she and her husband called it quits, and she briefly reasoned that lack of orgasms could be clouding her judgment to a certain degree.

If she were honest with herself, and she'd really been trying to be, she knew that it was less of a sex thing and more of a Walt thing. Which didn't help, because when the two got mixed up together in her mind Vic almost inevitably forgot the part where Walt had been a cold-hearted son of a bitch and instead remembered every conceivable way that she wanted to rip his clothes off and fuck his brains out. It was problematic, to say the least.

The alcohol certainly hadn't helped Vic to reconcile any of these issues, and she could only imagine the amount of crow she'd have to eat next time she talked to Eamonn. Probably a whole flock of the things. Or were they an unkindness, like the damn ravens? No, that wasn't right. It was 'a murder of crows,' which was oddly _apropos_ considering the fact that her morning-after headache was on a magnitude sufficient to facilitate homicide.

Coffee might help with that— at least it was her day off, so most of the citizens of Durant would be safe. The clock on the bedside table indicated that it was 9:45am so she'd best get moving, day off or not. Donning a slouchy Flyers sweatshirt and pulling her hair into a haphazard ponytail, Vic wandered out to the kitchen. She was surprised to encounter Cady, who was wearing a black belted raincoat and pouring coffee into a travel mug.

Cady gave a brief, alarmingly Walt-ish smile as she greeted Vic with a sidelong glance. "Good morning. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I think." Rubbing the side of her neck with one sweatshirt-covered arm, Vic leaned against the counter. "Better if there's a bit of black gold left in that coffee pot."

"You know, that glorious 'black gold' loses most of its inherent health benefits when you dump in half the state's sugar reserves." The pot was cheerfully proffered, along with a large mug bearing the inscription _Wyoming: Like No Place on Earth_. Wasn't that the fucking truth…

Vic watched as Cady moved to the living room and swung a red backpack from the end of the sofa to rest on the floor in the front entryway beside a petite black rolling suitcase. "You going somewhere?"

Pausing as she placed the travel mug on the small table beside the front door, Cady turned back distractedly. "Hmm? Oh— yeah! Sorry, my mind is already on my work and I probably didn't get a chance to tell you. I'm headed down to Boulder for a few days. I talked to the director at the National Indian Law Library and he said I could have special access and a work space while I get started with my first few case files. I'd rather be closer to my clients, but to be honest I really need a crash course in American Indian law. I had no idea how little I knew about how the system handles these cases."

Even with a hangover Vic couldn't help but smile at Cady's enthusiasm. "That's great." She sipped her coffee, feeling it warm her from the inside. "I promise I won't trash the place while you're gone."

"It should only be a few days, I have a meeting on Friday I'll need to be back for." Hand on the door handle, she paused abruptly. "Hey Vic?"

"Yeah?"

Cady seemed tentative, which wasn't normal for her. "Is… everything alright?"

"You mean apart from how my brain _and_ my mouth feel like they're full of cotton balls?" Vic was almost sure she knew what the other woman was asking, but deflecting seemed like the sensible thing to do.

Apparently Cady was willing to put in the work on this case too, a scenario Vic's under-caffeinated brain wasn't prepared for. "I mean with you and my dad. I just wondered if something's up. He's been acting… kinda weird, and then last night when he brought you back here, I thought I saw—"

The iPhone vibrated in Vic's sweatshirt pocket, obliterating all images of what Cady might have seen and what Vic still felt right down to the white of her bones. She was about to sing the silent praises of sweet technology until she noticed it was the station calling. "Shit," she grated out, adding "Sorry," for Cady's benefit.

She tried to rein in her irritation as she answered, expecting Ruby. "This is Vic."

A gravel deep, distinctly un-Ruby-like voice responded. "I sure hope so, otherwise I've got the wrong number."

Walt was doing that thing. That slightly awkward but grudgingly charming thing that he used to do much more often, where he tried to counteract the unpleasant request he was about to make by softening the delivery with jokey or slightly flirtatious small-talk.

Sighing and hoping her cheeks weren't as red as they felt, Vic waved to Cady as she shuffled out the door with her bags. "Why do I have the feeling you're about to ruin my day off?"

He paused for a moment on the other end of the line, and she could almost imagine him shifting his weight from one foot to the other and placing one hand on his hip. "Zachary woke up about an hour ago. I—" She visualized him chewing his own lip. "It's not exactly appropriate for me to take his statement so I was hoping you would do it."

If there could possibly be anything in the universe Vic wanted to do _less_ , she couldn't think of it at the moment. She swallowed her dread. "What about Ferg? He worked the scene."

 _The scene. Your cabin. Where you were reportedly in a significant state of undress with Donna Monaghan before shooting Zachary and discovering that Dr. Perfect had been sleeping with her patients and prescribing them medication that made them paranoid and unpredictable in order to keep them in her thrall._ _'_ _Not exactly appropriate_ _'_ _doesn_ _'_ _t really fucking cut it._

"Ferg got called down to the substation in Kaycee. They've got 20 missing cattle and a related assault, so he'll be tied up for hours. Besides, Vic…"

Exhaling slowly Vic's feet carried her to the bathroom, where she opened the medicine cabinet and rustled around for ibuprofen. "Besides _what_ Walt?" She didn't have the patience for his oblique bullshit. Not today.

"I know I can trust you. That you'll be thorough."

It should have felt like the compliment on her professional prowess that it was, but somehow Walt's gentle, measured words simply fueled the spark of anger that was still smoldering in the bottom of her stomach. "Fine."

"Thanks, Vic. I really—"

An important fact occurred to her as she heard Cady's Jeep pulling away out in the street.

"I need a ride back to my damn truck, so be here in half an hour."

She tapped the hang-up icon before he had a chance to reply.

* * *

 _I didn't know what I was doing, you have to believe me. It had been getting worse ever since that day with Monte, like my head was in some kind of fog. I thought it was just the stress— she never told me the pills could have side effects like this. She never told me anything. The Zoloft was supposed to help with my depression and the little bit of OCD I've always had. Sticky drawers, you remember?_

 _She told me I was doing well way before that, encouraged me to apply for the Deputy's job. I wasn't sure I was ready, but she said it would be fine. After I started she got a bit weird. She asked about Walt a lot, started saying I shouldn't trust him. Called me at the station, wanted to know what Walt was doing. I thought she was just looking out for me, you know?_

 _To me everything seemed good. I liked the job, I liked working for Walt, but Donna— Dr. Monaghan— she said he was out to get me. What happened with Monte just put me even more on edge, and when Walt fired me… I don't know. It all seemed to be true? I guess I kind of went off the rails. She tried to keep me calm, told me she would be at Walt's place and what I should do._

 _I'm so sorry, it was the only thing that made sense at the time. I thought it would make those feelings stop, that I could get back to Tai Chi and start feeling normal again. If the enemies outside went away, I knew I could handle the enemy within. Donna told me that was right, that it was the right thing to do._

 _I have no idea why she wanted me to kill him…_

* * *

The setting sun cast an orange glow through the blinds as Vic quickly knocked and side-stepped her way through the half open door to Walt's office. She was feeling physically better now, despite the circuitous, lengthy, and somewhat disturbing conversation with Zachary. Doc Weston said the former deputy would be fine once he'd had time to recover from the gunshot wound and readjust his mental health with the assistance of legitimate therapy and proper medication.

What was far more disturbing were Zachary's accusations regarding Dr. Monaghan. Vic had stopped at the Busy Bee for some fresh juice and a B.L.T. (two of the components were vegetables so it almost counted as health food in this god forsaken county), re-reading her notes three times and trying to find a way for Zachary's statement _not_ to mean that Donna Monaghan had intended for her mentally unstable patient to burst into Walt's cabin and gun him down in a fit of paranoid rage.

In the end Vic figured the best thing to do would be to deliver Zachary's statement to Walt, who could cross-reference it against the one that Dr. Monaghan had delivered to the station a couple weeks back. Maybe he would find something to explain the inconsistencies.

Walt was sitting behind his desk wearing a new-ish black snap front shirt, and Vic briefly wondered if it was one of the ones he'd bought because of _her_. She pushed the thought away, along with the un-ignorable feminine observation that he was handsome.

"Hey."

"Hey. How'd it go?"

She knew what he meant. Of course she did— and although a small part of her wanted to be a bitch and play dumb just to wind him up after everything he'd put her through, the part that was worried about what all of this meant won out by a narrow margin.

Flopping into her usual chair in front of the desk, she sighed heavily. "I'm not really sure. We might get something a bit more coherent out of Zachary in a few days, but I don't like his statement. At all."

Handing the folder across the desk, she watched Walt as he read it. As hard as it was to tell in the dimly lit room, Vic could swear she saw the color drain from his face as he reached the bottom of the second and final page.

"Doesn't make much sense, does it? I mean, it's not like Donna wanted to kill you. From what I could tell that was probably the last thing on her mind."

Walt shot her a look.

"Sorry. I umm… thought you might be able to check Zachary's story against the statement Dr. Monaghan dropped off a couple weeks back. Maybe they'll make more sense together?"

His eyebrows scrunched. "What statement?"

She tilted her head to the side. "I left it on your desk? Green folder." Her brain calculated. She had been out with Eamonn after Donna's visit. "Two Thursdays ago?"

Shuffling the papers around on his desk, which Vic always assumed was organized with some brand of weird high-level cowboy sheriff logic, he spotted the folder in question beneath a manila envelope and a pile of un-signed invoices. He opened the folder and gave the contents a cursory scan.

"And you didn't think to mention this to me?" Walt couldn't seem to choose where to focus his gaze, on the folder or on Vic.

Standing, she perched one hand on her hip and gestured to the top of his desk. "I assumed you would find it!"

Walt took a deep breath, evidently on his way to accepting the oversight. He nodded his head toward the folder. "Okay. So what does it say?"

Was he being serious? "I don't know. I didn't read it."

He dropped the folder onto the desk top, placing one hand on either side of it as he rose to his feet. "A witness and possible person of interest in a crime came into this station to make a voluntary statement and you didn't bother to look at it?"

Fuck, he was actually serious! "The contents were meant for your eyes only. Dr. Monaghan made it clear I wasn't welcome to read it."

"She had no right to decide that and you had a duty not to ignore it." He ran one hand over the bottom of his face, rasping against the stubble. "This is my _life,_ Vic!"

Oh no he didn't. No, ohhhhh no.

Vic could feel her head performing an involuntary disbelieving nod as her arms crossed over her chest. "Yeah? Well that's proof enough that whatever's in that folder is _none of my business._ _"_

Staring across at her Walt's eyes widened, and she knew that he realized the raw thoughtlessness of what he'd said. His tone softened, rationalizing. "Whatever's in that statement, Vic, it could be so important—"

"You can take that statement and shove it up your ass."

She refused to let the angry tears fall as she slammed her way out the private door, down the stairs, and out of the station, without even bothering to wonder whether Walt might follow.

* * *

Oh deary me, just when it looked like these two were making some progress. LOL! Did you really think it would be so easy? Feeling a bit bad for Zachary, but it looks like the bad guys might still be out there... What was in Donna's statement anyway? And what is Walt going to do now?

Reviews will be lovingly adorned with gold thread and hung on the Christmas tree. Oh, and there's probably some egg nog or other festive drink involved, just saying! *bats eyelashes* ;D


	7. Chapter 7

This update was ready sooner than expected. Thanks to everyone for the continued reviews and messages!

There is some mature content in this chapter, just to warn you. I won't be changing the rating of the fic since the vast proportion of it is T rated, but this might be on the edge of an M. If you aren't into that sort of thing, better skip approximately two thirds of this installment. Haha! Somehow I suspect you'll all be okay with it. ;D

* * *

 _Dreamcatcher  
_ _Part VII_

"What the hell do you want?"

"Can I come in?"

The instinct to run after Vic when she stormed out of the office had been overwhelming, but Walt found himself paralyzed in a white hot moment of indecision and fear. He'd taken a few steps toward the door, only to jerk his neck around to look at the glaringly out of place folder on his desk.

How had he missed it? It was nothing like the ones used by this department or any other local agency. Lately he'd been feeling like he'd missed _everything,_ and the folder was just a physical manifestation of all his failures. Despite his progress in therapy he had lashed out at Vic with anger that should rightfully be directed at himself, and upon her swift exit he'd been moments away from a repeat performance of his raging anguish induced desk-flipping tantrum from what seemed like a lifetime ago.

He'd known he should read Donna Monaghan's mysterious statement immediately, both as a matter of personal safety and potential investigative interest, but he was too distracted and anxious. At that point there'd been a sudden epiphany that devoting his attention to another woman yet again when his heart was screaming for him to go to Vic could potentially be the worst decision of his life.

Once the choice was made, Walt gave it his all. He'd run past a startled, purse-clutching Ruby in the stairwell without a word. He'd broken speed limits on the short trip to Cady's place. He was finally ready to lay it all on the line.

"Fine."

Vic didn't exactly invite him in, simply left the door wide open and stalked away with her back turned. The house was dark with the exception of a faint glow from the kitchen, which was Vic's destination. She hadn't had the time or inclination to take off her duty jacket, but Walt politely removed his hat as he followed to find her standing with her laptop open on the kitchen counter banging away at the keys.

"What are you doing?"

"Booking a plane ticket to Philadelphia."

His heart dropped into his similarly battered boots… it was his worst fear come true. "Why?" He knew it was his fault, but he had to ask her anyway. He swallowed, trying to push the fraught emotions back down his throat.

"I'm tired of being treated like your damn dog." She wouldn't even look at him, lashes fluttering over eyes that were fixed to the illuminated screen.

Tentatively, he stepped closer. Reaching out, he placed one of his hands on her shoulder. "Vic, I didn't mean to—"

"Save it for someone who cares."

She was ignoring his touch, which was almost worse than having her shrug him away— at least that would have been a reaction.

"Oooh, looks like I can get a flight from Denver tomorrow afternoon for around $275. Nice to get a decent bargain, since I'll have to ship all my stuff back separately. I'm sure Cady will help me with that."

He dropped his hand from her shoulder, fingers sliding along the smooth material of her jacket before coming to rest on the cool surface of the countertop beside the computer. He could feel the warmth of her body in front of him as he imposed himself into her space. "Don't do this."

"Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn't."

Walt's chest pressed against Vic's shoulder at an angle and he realized how rapidly she was breathing. It was right on pace with the hammering of his pulse. He knew this was the moment that could change everything— maybe they both knew it.

 _Because I love you,_ he thought to himself, but he couldn't come up with the words.

Walt had always been a believer in the adage that actions spoke louder, so he made his play. The hat fell from his fingers as he twisted Vic around and pressed her against the counter, taking note of how her eyes flashed as he grasped her head in both hands and meshed his lips onto hers.

Her body stiffened at first, hands shooting up to grip both of his biceps just above the elbow joint. Walt thought for sure she was about to push him away, so he tilted in and swept his tongue over her bottom lip in a device of unambiguous communication. To his surprise, Vic relaxed, slumping against the counter and slanting up so their mouths could seal and explore.

Vic made a purring noise in the back of her throat, fingers traveling up to Walt's shoulders and further to grasp at the collar of his jacket and pull him down. He inhaled sharply through his nose, lips unwilling to separate from the frantic dance that had begun. One of his hands slid to Vic's neck, fingers gripping at the hairline as the kiss continued to intensify. His other arm wound around her back, folding her into him as their tongues stroked provocatively.

It was probably less than a minute, but it felt like a slowly floating lifetime. Their lips finally parted and Walt released a soft involuntary groan as they both gasped for air. Vic's cheeks were flushed, eyes wide as she stared up at him. All Walt wanted to do was renew the connection, continue the pleasure-drunk descent. Right when he slanted in for more Vic shoved him away, dipped one shoulder, and slapped him hard across the face.

The physical sting was nothing compared to the crippling internal pain of a rejection that seemed likely to be final and complete. But then the anger in Vic's features faded, and one tear slid down her cheek following a trail that appeared to have been recently used. Walt wanted to reach out, wipe all her tears away and promise never to hurt her again. He wanted to cry himself, but he didn't have a chance to do anything.

Vic's fingers touched her mouth as she searched his face, inhaling shakily. "Shit," she breathed, right before launching suddenly and violently into Walt's arms, nearly knocking him over. Her lips attacked his, fingers plunging into his hair as he pulled her against him and wrapped her into an airtight embrace. Their lips molded and devoured, sharing a broken sigh as they clutched desperately at each other.

Her hands slid under his jacket, fingertips digging into the slightly rigid cotton of his shirt. His lips traveled to the soft skin of her neck just beneath her earlobe and she released an airy moan as he scraped it with his teeth and then sucked gently, tasting. Vaguely recalling one of his dreams, Walt walked Vic backward and hoisted her onto the kitchen counter, stepping between her legs as she squirmed her hips to perch at the edge. The heat and motion were making Walt lightheaded, and he paused for a breath as Vic pushed the jacket off his shoulders.

"Walt." Vic's hands were on his face, lips touching his softly. She kissed the corner of his mouth, tugging at the snaps on his shirt front. Her touch was deft and her fingers were nimble. Pushing forward he ran both hands up the outsides of her denim-covered thighs, kissing her hungrily as his fingers clutched her waist and bunched the material of her uniform shirt. She arched against him, tightening the grip of her legs around his torso.

God he wanted her, and the aching hardness inside Walt's jeans was making his desire clear. The angle wasn't quite right to press himself against her, but he could feel the welcoming warmth emanating from the junction of her thighs. He wanted to be buried in it, but he was absently aware that this was not an appropriate time _or_ place. "Vic," he choked out, leaning his face into the crook of her neck, "We should stop."

Vic didn't agree. She had worked the front of his shirt open, pressing her palms flat against his chest. "Do you want me?"

He breathed her in, lips skirting the edge of her collarbone beneath the material of her shirt. "Of course I do. I have for so long. I—" His brain was telling him no, but the temptation of her willing body was a powerful draw.

"Then you have to show me, or there's no reason for me to stay." Vic slid herself off the counter and down the front of his body, biting her lip as her center brushed past the prominent ridge of his erection. His jaw dropped from the ripple of pleasure caused by her actions, even through all their layers of clothing.

"But—" His brain was growing hazy. "Cady might—"

Vic shook her head, craning up to mouth at the side of his neck. "She's out of town until Friday."

Walt's arms were on either side of Vic, hands gripping the counter. His hips jerked as she reached for his belt buckle, and he realized she had him half undone in more ways than the obvious while she was still fully clothed. In that moment he knew that she was in control, and the only viable option was unconditional surrender.

* * *

Walt was warm. The sensation permeated his skin and seeped into his bones, like a hot shower after a long hard day out in the cold. With all of Vic's naked skin pressed against him, he felt as though he was warmed through for the first time in months, maybe even years. Blonde hair tickled his chin as the woman in his arms snoozed silently with her head resting atop the crook of his shoulder.

At least, he'd thought she was asleep…

"Walt. I can actually hear you being awake. Your brain is loud."

"Sorry," he said softly. He had a lot to be sorry for, so maybe he should start apologizing now.

"Hmm, maybe I can be persuaded to forgive. What were you thinking about?" She stretched and twisted enticingly, raising her head to look at him.

One of her hands was resting on top of his chest, so he covered it with his own. "You." It was true, though the mode of his thoughts was subject to interpretation.

Fortunately, Vic chose to focus on the most direct possibility, voice low and sultry. "That's a good answer. I was dreaming about you."

That piqued his curiosity, visions of his own dreams dancing in the shadows on the ceiling. "Really? What was I doing?"

Rolling on top of him beneath the twisted blankets, Vic flashed Walt a toothy smile. "Me."

The evidence of her happiness made his chest feel tight, but Walt didn't have much time to ponder it before the thought was lost among the sensations of Vic grasping and stroking him to full readiness as she slowly rubbed her body against his own. Allowing his hands their newfound freedom to explore, Walt gripped Vic's hips and groaned appreciatively as she enveloped him in her slick, tight heat.

The silence of the dead early morning hours was peppered with whimpers and soft cries of pleasure as they rocked against each other, tempo increasing as Vic added a little twist to her hips and Walt molded his hands over her breasts. His touch worked her into a frenzy, grinding down and leaning in to breathe a sensual plea against the shell of his ear.

"Oh, God— harder."

An uncontrolled, blatantly aroused noise erupted from Walt's throat as he wrapped one arm low around Vic's back and heaved her compliant body beneath him. He buried himself in her, rolling his hips and pumping deeper and faster in time with her impassioned cries. Walt was making plenty of his own sounds, shuddering with intense gratification as Vic dug her fingernails into his lower back and met his thrusts with targeted movements of her own.

One of Walt's arms was still buried beneath Vic, their legs tangling and chests rubbing together as he pounded into her. He bit out a gruff "Oh," as she tightened and arched off the bed, gasping and shaking with the first tremors of orgasm. The growing force of Vic's climax sent Walt out of control, every inch of his cock engulfed by the scorching, viselike spasms of her body. He tumbled over the edge, lost in her, skin tingling and brain blanking from the concentrated ecstasy of release.

They collapsed in the aftermath, still connected and clinging to each other. Walt never wanted to let go, peering at Vic's slack and satisfied facial expression out of the corner of his eye. After a few long minutes of blissed out silence, Vic tilted her head toward his, faces close enough that their noses were almost touching. Walt reached over and brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek.

She smiled again, and he started to feel like he could get addicted to the sight. "Did you ever imagine it would be like this?"

Walt chose to assume she was referring to the sex, rather than anything else. Blinking slowly, he considered how to answer without admitting just how many times he had wandered down those exact pathways in his mind. "I suspected."

He could feel her laughter vibrating through her ribs where his arm enfolded her midsection. "You sure are confident."

"No," he countered, sandwiching one of his legs atop both of hers as his eyes drifted shut. "But I am a pretty good detective."

* * *

Walt's sleep was dreamless, and the next time he woke there was light filtering in through the curtains. He was alone in the bed, but the door to the room was open and he could hear noises emanating from the kitchen. Taking stock of his surroundings, he noticed that there was a small ornamental dreamcatcher hanging from the window frame. Weren't those things supposed to go above your bed to keep the bad dreams away? In his case it seemed all that was needed was a night of passion with the right woman.

Speaking of his deputy, maybe now his partner of another kind, it would probably be a good idea for them to talk about what had happened between them. Rising from the bed, Walt located his jeans and pulled them on. The rest of his clothes were bound to be scattered somewhere, but they could wait.

He emerged and crossed the living room, feeling a bit uncomfortable wandering through the open spaces of his daughter's home with no shirt on. Had this been the type of thing Cady was imagining when she'd told him it would be 'weird' for Vic to stay with her? His daughter certainly wasn't stupid— maybe she'd had a better understanding of his relationship with Vic back then than he had himself.

Vic was in the kitchen, cooking an omelette and, endearingly, wearing his hat along with her ensemble of very brief knit shorts and a black tank top. He smiled, watching as she bopped along to a song on the radio.

"Good morning," he offered, voice feeling a bit rougher than usual after an uninterrupted slumber.

She turned her head toward him, tipping the hat back. "Hi. There's coffee." She gestured to the coffee pot on the counter.

Soon they were sharing the omelette, which had cheese and peppers and a few vegetables Walt wasn't certain he could identify. Spinach, maybe? It tasted good, and he absently realized that he'd never eaten Vic's cooking before. He felt like he could get used to it… which reminded him of the talk they should probably be having.

"So, uhh—"

Vic had removed his hat and set it brim up on the side table, and a wisp of hair escaped from her loose ponytail as she sipped her orange juice. She was beautiful.

"Hmm?"

"I— well, I was thinking we should probably talk about this. Shouldn't we?"

Setting down her fork, Vic struggled to maintain eye contact. Wasn't that a bad sign? "Umm. Yeah, I guess?"

He reached for her hand. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I just thought— well, there are a lot of things we need to clear up." _I need to tell you that I love you, for one thing,_ he thought to himself.

She raised an eyebrow, marbled brown eyes lighting with what could have been a spark of defiance. "Well then. By all means, clear away."

Beginning to wonder whether talking might be a colossal mistake after all, Walt opened his mouth. Before any words could form, Vic's phone vibrated beside the plate of toast on the table between them.

"Shit, it's Ferg."

Walt felt an odd sense of relief at the interruption. "You'd better get it, he might need one of us."

Vic answered the phone, and Walt half-listened to her end of the clipped conversation that followed. When she hung up, he could tell by the change in her face that something was wrong. Walt knew that face, it was the same one he'd seen in Arizona behind the door between their rooms on that night when he was ready to break all his rules. He tilted his head, waiting for her to fill him in.

"Ferg stopped by the hospital to visit Zachary on his way back from the substation this morning."

She stood, quickly gathering the used plates.

"Yeah? And?"

"Zachary's gone."

A sense of dread settled in the pit of Walt's stomach. "What, he checked himself out?" He doubted Zachary was ready for that just yet, but it wasn't the end of the world.

"No, that's the problem- he didn't. And nobody else came to visit him after I took his statement yesterday. He was there when the nurse did her rounds at 4am and by the time Ferg got there he had disappeared."

"Shit," he mumbled.

Vic shot him a slightly amused look. "That's usually my line."

Standing, he helped with the last few dishes, scanning the area for the rest of his clothes and belongings. "Its use is definitely warranted in this case. We'd better get moving."

"Yep." He'd stolen her line, so apparently Vic felt she was entitled to borrow one of his.

And with that the spell of their night together was broken, though Walt's body still ached with the memories. The pressures of the outside world were calling, and the threads of their aborted talk were left fluttering in the breeze as the Bronco carried them down the highway toward Durant Regional Hospital.

* * *

Well, I call that progress! That talking thing might be a bit of a problem, though... to paraphrase one recent reviewer, why can't Walt and Vic have nice things? Maybe they can, eventually! ;D

Let me know how you liked it, and if you have any theories about Zachary's whereabouts! Reviews will be rewarded with spritzers, Gin Rickeys, and other retro cocktails! The non-drinkers can have a Shirley Temple.


	8. Chapter 8

Hey all! Sorry for the delay with this update. December was exceptionally busy for me, which was somewhat expected but always seems to sneak up nonetheless. I've been working on this one in fits and starts for a while, so I hope the components gel effectively. :)

Thanks as always for all of your feedback; hearing your thoughts is entertaining, thought-provoking, and always motivational. I haven't had a ton of time for replies, but I'm getting to them slowly. Please know that the reviews and PMs are greatly appreciated!

* * *

 _Dreamcatcher  
_ _Part VIII_

They didn't hold hands on the ride to the hospital.

They were professionals, so of course they wouldn't do something so ridiculous. It wouldn't be appropriate or particularly characteristic of their normal behavior, and they needed to stay focused on the situation at hand. Vic knew all of these things, so why did the lack of any gesture differentiating their relationship from what it had been at this time yesterday bother her so much?

There was nothing unusual about the way Walt was driving. His right hand was on the steering wheel, the left pressed snugly against the driver's side window. It was a sunny morning, so he'd donned his Ray Bans just like she had. Paired with his neutral expression, however, the covered eyes made him appear oddly closed off from her. It was probably all in her mind, but that was the place where she existed, and in the silence her worries held form.

The slightly open collar of Walt's shirt peeking out from his jacket had a surprisingly evocative effect, and Vic found herself replaying some of the juicier moments from last night as the familiar landscape rolled past outside her window. The first time his lips brushed the most sensitive spot on her neck. The sight of his shoulders shrugging out of that black shirt as he stood next to the bed with his jeans hanging open and a wild glow in those blue eyes. The incredible heat of his body bearing down, wrapping around her, touch gentle but unyielding as he pinned her to the mattress.

It all gave her tingles in places she shouldn't be thinking about during the work day. Rolling her neck, Vic pressed her palms together and slid them between her denim-clad knees.

Thankfully Walt totally misread her body language, inclining his head toward her as the flat road straightened ahead of them. "You cold? I could turn the heat up…"

 _That's the last fucking thing I need,_ Vic thought to herself. She answered with a rapid head shake as Walt tentatively reached for the temperature controls. "I'm fine."

"Okay then."

God, they both sucked at this talking thing. Vic thought about Walt's awkward attempts over breakfast, and her own reluctance to hear whatever rationalizations or reversals he might have cooked up in his brain while she had been busy rummaging for extra vegetables to put in their omelette with the secret irrational hope of keeping his strength up for another round.

" _I— well, I was thinking we should probably talk about this. Shouldn't we?"_

This is the part where he was going to say that it was a mistake, that he doesn't want you to get the wrong impression.

" _I don't want to make you uncomfortable, I just thought— well, there are a lot of things we need to clear up."_

Here's where he only fucked you so that you wouldn't leave, but it can never happen again. He might even find a way to make his actions sound noble, it's the kind of verbal feat he seems capable of achieving.

" _We'd better get moving."_

As opposed to staying still, wasting time in an awkward 'morning after' bubble.

Was this it for them? Walt had made a physical play in response to what was basically an ultimatum she had issued. And his tactic had worked— after all, she was still here. Vic wanted to think that last night was more than just an attempt on his part to mollify her, but she was all too aware that one night stands were by no means entirely outside of Walt Longmire's sexual vocabulary.

Vic tamped down her unease as they navigated the hospital corridor stride for stride, masking a sharp inhale when they arrived at Zachary's vacated room and Walt's hand fell to the small of her back to usher her through the door. Did that effortless, natural gesture mean something now, the way she used to think it did before… everything? He hadn't touched her in that casual man-to-woman manner in so long, it was almost more of a shock to the system than the reality of last night's sexual interlude. It filled Vic with a floaty feminine longing that had absolutely no right existing at a crime scene.

She forced herself to pay attention as Walt's fingertips drifted away, maybe a bit slower than they should. Walt seemed to be experiencing no such difficulty, perching his hands on his hips and surveying the small space.

"What does it look like, Ferg?"

The younger deputy began to lay out his findings and it was all business from there, at least for a time.

* * *

There was evidence of foul play, if you knew what to look for.

As an expert-level hospital escape artist, Walt was uniquely qualified to comment. Vic had observed with interest as he inspected the IV and monitor hookups, reasoning that Zachary could have managed to disconnect himself from the machines. What was less likely was for him to have accidentally ripped all the institutional coverings loose from the bed in the process, particularly the bottom edges of the bedding and the tightly fitted sheet beneath. Head bent down beside the disheveled pillows, Walt muttered that they were called 'hospital corners' for a reason.

Watching Walt work, something Vic would admit she hadn't done with much care in quite a while, she was struck by his focus and quiet intensity. It was a strange thing, how a man who couldn't ordinarily be bothered to spend two minutes examining the menu at the Busy Bee could approach other matters with such fierce concentration. The back of Vic's neck flushed hot, remembering how it had felt for her body to be the object of Walt's single-minded attention.

Squinting, Walt ran his fingers over the slightly rumpled bed sheet, pinching with thumb and index and slowly extracting one long blonde hair.

"I don't think this is Zachary's." He tilted his head to examine the strand in full light.

Vic pressed in beside his shoulder to get a closer look, pointedly ignoring the solidity of his bicep against her jacketed arm. "It could be mine? From earlier yesterday…"

Walt shook his head, peering down at the crown of Vic's. "Doubt it. You had your hair pulled back, and the color is a bit darker at the roots. This one is uniform all the way through."

"Gee, thanks for noticing I need a touch up." Vic wasn't sure if she was teasing or fishing for compliments, the confusion of how to act in this new version of reality twisting in the bottom of her stomach.

The corner of Walt's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly, his sideways glance a tad speculative. "Looks fine to me. Bet you'd look great as a brunette, too."

Ferg cleared his throat, tactfully attempting to ignore the moment of outright flirtation without being too overt. "Maybe Dr. Monaghan was here and they had an argument?"

Shoulders tensing, Walt scrunched his eyebrows thoughtfully. "Ferg, you head over to Zachary's place. See if he's there, or if it looks like he has been. Meet us back at the station."

The younger deputy nodded and took his leave, clearly accustomed to the sheriff's cryptic habits. Vic turned so that she was face to face with Walt, proffering a small plastic evidence bag to accommodate the strand of hair.

"What are you thinking?"

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other as Walt's large fingers gently made their deposit.

"I'm thinking it's about time I finally read Dr. Monaghan's statement."

Vic's lips parted in surprise. She had assumed Walt must have read the document before following her to Cady's. "You didn't look at it last night?"

"My mind was on something else." His blue gaze was steady, meaningful, head absently shaking in the negative.

For a few short moments as she stared back, Vic felt like the most important woman in the world. It was a powerful feeling, knowing that at least this one time she had ranked first in his eyes.

"Alright. Let's go."

* * *

He asked her to read it too, and she knew it was both an apology and a deeper sign of trust. It still made Vic's skin crawl, regardless of Walt's good intentions.

Needless to say, the 'good' doctor's statement was full of clinical terms, professional denials, and absolutely nothing about her careful cultivation of Zachary's paranoia with both medication and unethical subconscious tactics. Also absent were any mentions of the more inappropriate aspects of their relationship which were hinted at by Zachary and apparently evidenced by Donna's own hysterical behavior at Walt's cabin. That incident was still a bit of a mental no-fly zone for Vic, who curiously felt even less capable of contemplating the idea of Walt in another woman's arms now that she'd had him in her own.

The sky outside had darkened to a steely grey after the brightness of the morning wore away, with the possibility of a cold autumn rain in the offing. Ferg radioed in to say he was headed over to Zachary's place, and Ruby had nipped out to do some necessary errands while the station was manned— and woman-ed, in this particular case. Sheriff and deputy had shut themselves in Walt's office, Vic leaning against the desk on the same side as Walt's chair.

"This woman has a fucking terrible track record with patients, doesn't she? We never did find out who torched her van…" Vic didn't want to think about _that_ part of what had been a very bad day either, but her investigative drive was a powerful motivator.

Walt leaned back and swiveled slightly, hands folded atop his torso. His jean-clad knee nudged against Vic's leg, a gesture that felt way more sexual than it should. "I think we know."

Placing the green folder back on the desk, Vic raised an incredulous eyebrow. "We do?"

"Yep," he chewed his bottom lip and blinked slowly. "She did."

"What? You're saying she blew up her own shit?" It seemed so outlandish that Vic almost wanted to laugh, but Walt was obviously serious.

"Yep."

"But… _why_?"

He was quiet for a long moment, and Vic could see the wheels of thought turning behind his faraway eyes. "To get my attention. I hadn't been returning her calls for a couple days, so." He shrugged.

"…so she set her own vehicle on fire? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive?"

Walt sat straighter, scooting his chair toward Vic and placing one hand on the desk beside her hip so that she was sandwiched between him and the furniture. She wondered whether she was projecting her deeply rooted desire to run from the rest of this conversation.

Averting his eyes, Walt seemed almost embarrassed at his next admission. "It wouldn't be the first time a woman abused the 911 system to get a date with me."

"That's a piss poor excuse for a joke even by your standards."

He started, as if waking from a trance. "She needed to get me alone and I played right into it. I was all knotted up and I missed the clues… the only thing I can't figure out is what she was trying to accomplish."

 _He'd_ been knotted up? After their so-called conversation in the alley Vic had been so emotionally volatile, she would almost have believed it if someone said _she_ had blown up Donna's van with some kind of insane pyrokinesis like the kid from _Firestarter_. Walt, though? He had stonewalled her with so little effort, such a total lack of reaction.

 _Hadn't_ he?

Vic's brain pulled a mental rewind and fixated on one peculiar piece of information. "You hadn't been returning her calls?"

His thumb stroked the edge of her jean pocket, long fingers splayed at her hip. "Nope."

"Why not?" She slid closer, one of her legs pressed between both of his.

"Something didn't feel right. Too many things at once, really, but I couldn't handle any of it."

Frowning, Vic stiffened under Walt's light touch. "But… you were with her. At the cabin. I don't understand any of this, Walt."

He reached for both her hands, pulling her in to stand between his legs. "That was after."

"After what?"

"You and Eamonn."

This time, she actually did laugh. "There was no 'me and Eamonn,' Walt."

Encircling her with long arms and enveloping warmth, he pressed his forehead against her abdomen. "I think I know that now. But then…"

Arms draped over Walt's shoulders, Vic spoke to the top of his head. "It was once. Just once. After the hospital. I wanted to make you jealous."

"When I went back to get you they said your husband picked you up. I thought you were rubbing my face in it, and I was angry."

Threading her fingers into his hair, Vic tilted Walt's head up for direct eye contact. "What the fuck did we do to each other?"

"I don't know. We really messed up, but it looks like we've got another chance."

Vic trembled as Walt's hands traveled over her curves and urged her body into his lap. It didn't seem like the chair should be big enough for both of them, but he held her close and her knees wedged at either side of his hips. They fit so well, a fact she was keenly aware of after last night. His lips brushed that perfect, sensitive spot at the edge of her jaw beneath her earlobe.

She gasped at the touch of his mouth and the soft scratch of his stubble against her neck. "What if we fuck it up this time, too?"

They breathed each other's air, Vic's fingers flexing against Walt's open shirt collar. The moment of sensual anxiety was broken by the rumble of his voice as the banked fire of attraction and repressed emotion engulfed them. "I won't let that happen."

It was so _like_ Walt, to imply that he could make everything right through sheer force of will. To Vic on the other hand, as she fell into the contact and capitulated to the wild sensation of his tongue snaking into her mouth to dance with her own, it felt like they had less control over this thing between them than ever before and could all too easily drag each other straight over the edge to disaster.

* * *

Hmm. Well, they sort of talked! Kind of. They DO suck at it, and I doubt that would change overnight. Oops, lol. At least a few topics got aired, but there's still an awful lot hanging in the balance.

Would love to hear some thoughts about this chapter! What happened to Zachary? Is Donna involved, or perhaps a victim herself? Can Walt and Vic move past their issues and build a lasting relationship, or will things get worse before they get better?

The new year is just days away, so reviews will be rewarded with classic and dependable bubbly! ;D


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry it's been so long since the last update for this! I've been busy with work and numerous cooler things, but I've still been chipping away at this fic and a couple others. Thank you to everyone for the patience and continued support!

This chapter is on the shorter side by my standards, but it felt complete and I wanted to share something before my work week begins.

* * *

 ** _Dreamcatcher  
_ _Part IX_**

The texture of life continues to change and he's starting to feel like maybe he has some control over things again, finally.

Authority is a natural position for him and he's used to being in charge of the world directly around him. For Walt Longmire being the sheriff isn't just a job, it's the way he is as a man right down to his bones with all the attendant blood and flesh and increasingly strained connective tissue that surrounds them.

That natural sense of command has eroded and deteriorated over the past few years, frustration mounting in the face of events seemingly beyond his control. From Martha's murder all the way up to the wrongful death lawsuit and almost everything in between, he's been faced with one apparent failure after another. Walt has never believed in coincidence, but refusing to admit that he couldn't have stopped any of it only leads down a path of self-loathing and blame— some of which he knows he deserves regardless of all the exonerations and reprieves heaped upon him.

Being wrong about so many things and losing sight of the grounded and resolute perspective that has always been so deeply ingrained resulted in a string of bad decisions, mislaid trust, and a surprisingly thorough destruction of his confidence. In combination this has caused every important relationship in his life to suffer, from his stubborn attempts to protect his loved ones to his own more obstreperous refusals to listen or accept help from any of them.

It brings to mind that dark night by the river with Vic, and her assertions that she was 'toxic'. The memory causes a sick feeling in his stomach, because in the end wasn't Walt himself the one who infected everything and everyone around him? Vic had theorized that anybody who got too close to her either died or left— wasn't that truer for him than for anyone else? He and his deputy were alike in so many ways, and yet he had almost managed to push her away completely. And hadn't that been his intention, his warped and nebulous objective? The urge to protect Vic had been powerful, but he'd gone about it all wrong and it was clear to Walt now that part of his behavior had been rooted in a deep and selfish terror-induced compulsion to shield his own heart.

As Walt reclines on the uncomfortable sofa in his unlit office, he remembers what he told Vic back then and wonders how he had been capable of offering such simple-sounding counsel that he himself was so entirely incapable of taking on board.

" _Maybe the point is to keep trying. Maybe getting it right just one time is good enough."_

Thinking about the feel of Vic in his arms, even just the low-level satisfied buzz he gets from knowing she's in the outer office poring over the copy of Zachary's medical records they pulled from the departmental file with her hair glowing gold by the light of the desk lamp, Walt is finally able to admit to himself how badly he wants this to be that time. He knows he's done almost everything wrong when it comes to them, but now that he's started to let himself love Vic he knows quitting is no longer an option. The moment their lips met he knew that he would fight for her, that he would take his own advice and keep trying.

Vic had told him he shouldn't go home with the situation being what it was, and Walt isn't sure whether to laugh or cry or hang his head in shame at the role reversal presented by her suggestion. He could see it in Vic's face as soon as the words escaped her lips, the recollection that he'd said the same both to her and to Donna and the fact that she hadn't finished digesting how she felt about that.

Ferg had decided to do a bit of surveillance at Zachary's place, to see if he or anybody else turned up overnight as it appeared that the missing patient had not been home and there was no evidence of forced entry to his abode. There wasn't much else they could do until morning, so Walt had agreed that he and Vic could hold the fort and take turns sleeping and searching through the available files for possible leads or inconsistencies. There was so much they didn't know, such a fog of hidden dangers and potential betrayals, his brain was suddenly unable to concentrate on any one thing so he'd reluctantly accepted Vic's offer of the first rest shift.

It was all a bit surreal, the bewildering host of variables in the monumentally changed landscape of his existence. The highs and lows had done a number on his system with the rush of positive endorphins from his night with Vic and the subsequent adrenaline crash, and the only valid option was to surrender to exhaustion. Words and shapes danced like distorted shadows on the backs of Walt's eyelids as he drifted into a fretful slumber…

* * *

 _Hey, do you know where my new shirt is? The blue one. I can_ _'_ _t seem to find it._

A curtain of blonde hair flips to the side, revealing a pinched and haughty facial expression with lips painted an uncharacteristic blood red. There's no teasing warmth to be found here, nor any inclination to offer assistance.

 _Well, that's not the only thing you can't do, is it_ _?_

He's looking where the shirts are, but none of them are blue. Some of them are new, some old, but for whatever odd reason every last one of them is a rich and inky shade of black.

 _I'm_ _trying. I don't know what else you want from me._

There's a brief snort of unamused laughter as she appears in the bedroom doorway, and the silhouette of her rather severe professional attire is thrown into angular relief by the flickering cast of firelight behind her.

 _It has nothing to do with what I want. It's about what THEY wanted._

She steps aside and he stumbles backward, one of a dozen black shirts clutched tight in his left hand as the silent and translucent shades take form in the space beyond.

Barlow. Branch. David Ridges. Hector. Chance Gilbert. Miller Beck.

Martha.

 _I'_ _m so sorry. You could never know how sorry—_

They don't respond, expressionless eyes piercing him as they continue to draw closer. Slowly extending his free hand, he isn't sure if he's reaching out or trying to shield himself. Friends and foes, the innocent and the evil. Had they all died because of him?

Gliding back into view, Donna smirks as though she can hear his thoughts ringing out. He doesn't know the rules of this universe, so maybe she can. Maybe they all can. There's a sudden dampness emanating from the material squeezed between his fingers, and when his gaze flickers down he can see smears of bright red along the edge of his palm. He tries to wipe the blood away using another part of the shirt, but the garment is saturated.

 _You were supposed to protect them. Who's going to be next? Your daughter? Your best friend? Your "favorite" deputy?_

Her eyebrow is raised, lips twisted cruelly, and he understands her implication. He doesn't want to give her that power over him, knows that it is a choice he has to make. He's not sure how to make it, or even if he can. Ignoring Donna even as she hovers at the edge of his vision, he pins his hopes on them.

 _I don't know how to make it up to you_ _._ _Will I ever be able to set it all right?_

Their ghostly gazes are cold as they bear down on him. He watches Martha's familiar but oddly indistinct features as she tilts her head and hovers mere inches away, sheer grayish skin nearly tangible as his vision blurs trying to focus on something, anything.

Words reach his ears, but he swears he never saw Martha's lips move. Maybe they didn't— maybe Donna threw the venomous murmur from the other side of the room, or maybe he'd conjured Vic's voice from some impenetrable well of poison inside his own mind.

 _I doubt that_ _'_ _s possible_ _…_

* * *

Outside the anguish of the twisted dream world Walt feels a sudden warmth against his shoulder, accompanied by a gentle rocking motion. He's only surfaced about halfway, throat tight and limbs paralyzed as his eyes snap open at the sound of her worried entreaties as she tries to shake him out of it.

"Walt, Walt! Wake up. Are you having a nightmare? Fuck, I thought that shit was for nine year olds—"

Her curses imbue him with sudden strength and he groans out a shuddering exhale, arms shooting out to wrap around Vic and draw her down into his embrace. She's clearly surprised but cooperative, cradling his head and wrapping one arm around his shoulders as he buries his face in the side of her neck and breathes her name.

Skin cool and touched with fading hints of soap and perfume, Vic holds him like he wants to be held. Something changes as his arms tighten around her and she whispers soothing words against the shell of his ear. Walt doesn't feel the slightest inclination to hide, and he basks in the total lack of judgement from his partner as Vic's fingers slide soothingly along the skin just beneath his shirt collar.

"It's okay. Everything's gonna be alright."

If only for that fleeting instant, he believes her.

* * *

Well, I think we all knew in a fic based around dreams Walt would have to have an ooky nightmare eventually. It was awfully easy to write about Donna being creepy because let's face it— she's a bit creepy already, at least in my opinion. LOL!

Please let me know what you thought of this, and if you have theories about the remainder of the story! I love hearing from everyone. Fancy coffees with every review, spiked upon request! ;D


	10. Chapter 10

Hi All! Been working on this update for a few weeks now, bit by bit. Sorry the chapters are taking so long; hopefully that doesn't detract from continued enjoyment of the story! There's a bit of mature content in this installment, not that I expect that will bother anyone... :)

Thanks as always to all who have taken the time to leave reviews. The feedback is always greatly appreciated and highly motivational!

* * *

 _Dreamcatcher  
_ _Part X_

She told him everything was alright, even though the sounds and sights of his evident terror struck a surprising amount of fear into her heart.

He'd always been so strong, or at least he'd seemed it, and seeing Walt thrash and whimper on the utilitarian office sofa shook her fragile understanding of their rapidly evolving world. Vic's failure to ascertain the full scale of his humanity made her feel for a moment like maybe she didn't know Walt at all— that maybe every thing she's ever thought about him has been wrong or incomplete on some deeply basic level. Even the perceptions that took her perilously close to the edge of hating him these past painful months were blurring at the edges, and through the uncertainty she's drawn to him just the same.

It had seemed like the right thing, the only thing to do, to wake him up from the nightmare and offer what support she could. The fact that he was receptive was a surprise, and she'd honestly been shocked when he pulled her into his arms. The only other time she could remember trying to comfort him in such a way was at the hospital after Cady's accident, and although he had seemed to accept her touch she knew that she hadn't had the right to give him that or especially anything more. It had caused a pain that was almost physical, wanting so much to be there for him but knowing that she simply couldn't. At least, not like _that_ — she'd done what she could in her own way. Vic hadn't even realized back then how far she had already fallen.

There wasn't time for further musing on the subject, as it turned out.

"Vic, I—"

Trailing off, Walt sighed and shifted his weight. Pulling her further into his lap, one of his arms slid down to rest at the swerve of her waist. The fingers of that hand slipped beneath the hem of her undershirt, and at first she assumed it was by accident. But then his lips brushed the hollow of her throat and moved slowly up the side of her neck on a meandering but nonetheless purposeful mission to press against her own.

Her hand that had been administering a soothing touch along his shirt collar found a new purpose, winding into the hair at the base of his skull as he instigated a warm and melting kiss. Testing the waters, Walt's fingers flexed beneath the stretchy cotton of her tank top. Vic's breath hitched when his palm flattened against her side and his fingertips trailed up her ribcage. Their lips parted with her gasp, and his eyelids fluttered open to reveal wide black pupils ringed by a flash of midnight blue. That look made her hot all over, and it seemed the feeling was mutual as a low moan escaped Walt's throat upon renewed meeting of their mouths. Vic eagerly swallowed that noise, sliding her tongue between his bottom lip and his teeth before tilting her head to deepen the contact.

What had started out as comfort was rapidly spiraling down into something entirely else, something hungry and instinctive and unrepentantly erotic. Walt's touch was no longer hesitant, the rough warmth of his hands sending Vic higher as he grasped and stroked bare skin wherever he could find it. Her senses reeled, thoughts tumbling tail over tea kettle while her hands fell to his chest and pushed the parted fabric of his shirt collar aside to access the unashamedly masculine delights within. Walt responded by slumping downward and twisting his hips, grasping the top of her thigh and yanking it alongside his own so that her knees were nestled on either side of his body and she could feel his straining erection pressing against her increasingly heated center.

There were a thousand things Vic could have said right then, about not solving problems with sex or about engaging in such activities while technically on duty— a taboo that loomed large in the darker reaches of her personal history— but all she could manage was a breathless "Fuck, you feel so good," as Walt rocked himself up into the cradle of her thighs. Soon they were tugging at each other's clothing, creating new strategies and innovative logistics to remove only what was necessary and reach the point of connection they were both so desperate to make. They'd always had a knack for teamwork, and this was no exception.

Vic's jeans and panties were still hanging from one calf, uniform shirt discarded and sleeveless black tank top yanked askew as she sank smoothly onto Walt. He released another purring groan, neck stretching so the back of his head rested against the top of the middle couch cushion. His hands found their way to her waist, steadying, as she grasped the open sides of his shirt front and gave an experimental roll of her hips. The angle was so perfect with Walt seated but slouched down, a choked whimper escaped Vic's lips as she leaned further into him.

All she could do was put away her doubts and give in to the powerful compulsion of his body. If this was what he wanted, needed, she couldn't deny him— she wasn't about to lie and say she didn't want this just as much. She adopted a slow rhythm, rubbing herself against him with both hands gliding beneath his shirt to clench at the bare skin of his shoulders. Walt bit back a curse and held her eyes with his own, running steady fingers over her curves and tracing the side of his thumb along the exposed lacy edge of her bra where it peeked out from beneath her twisted undershirt. He pushed upward just as she ground down and Vic knew she was lost— maybe for good, but definitely to the heat of this moment.

Walt was really getting into it and that turned her on more than anything else. There were grunts of effort and sharply indrawn breaths until the tight circling of Vic's pelvis got him riled up to the breaking point and she found herself suddenly flat on her back with one leg pulled around his waist and his elbow propped next to her head to give him better leverage. The leather of the sofa creaked and the frame protested under the vigorous movements of its occupants, their limbs entwining restlessly as Walt put more of his weight into the rapidly accelerating thrusts.

Fingertips digging into the flesh of Walt's broad back, Vic stifled a cry of pleasure and buried her face into the warm junction of his shoulder and neck while every muscle in her body tightened and released. Their torsos were fused as he shuddered above her, hair falling into his eyes and lower body jerking sensuously in time with her uncontrolled flutters. Vic's arms were clasped around Walt, drawing him down as he reached and thoroughly conquered unvisited depths within her. They were both gasping for air, clutching desperately as the aftershocks continued to roll through them like a powerful wave slowly dragging away from the shore.

The floating moments that followed existed outside of time, and through the blissful haze of perception could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. Walt had rolled sideways so that his back was against the couch and his arms were looped around Vic, their chests pressed together and his legs still wedged between her own.

"Wow," she breathed, running her hand over his bicep which was half-covered by the sleeve of his shirt.

He nuzzled the side of her face, trailing the bridge of his nose along the skin behind her earlobe before placing a soft kiss there. "Yeah," he gruffed in a similarly dazed tone.

Vic shifted slightly and Walt squeezed tighter, as if he feared she was drawing away. Part of her thought she probably _should_ , but she was intoxicated by his solid warmth all around her and the heady sensation of simply being held— there'd been so little tenderness near the end of her marriage to Sean and countless lonely nights since. She could admit that Walt had been on her mind both before her divorce and after, but she had never had the foresight or the courage to imagine a scenario like this. Something frozen inside of her thawed, and she allowed her body to relax completely for what felt like the first time in forever as she slumped against him.

Large fingers stroked the soft hairs on the back of her neck as they lay entangled, her smaller body cradled and enveloped by Walt's larger frame. His breath tickled her ear as he exhaled slowly, breathing out one quiet but characteristically cryptic word. "Thanks."

What was he thanking her for? For not getting up? For waking him from whatever nightmare he'd been having? For fucking him on the office couch?

Raising her head from where it was cradled in the crook of Walt's neck seemed like a supreme effort, but it was worth it to see how he was looking at her. Vic suddenly felt like the scope of his gratitude might encompass things far beyond a quickie and a cuddle, and they were moments and millimeters away from falling into each other again when she heard the distinctive swing and click of the downstairs door.

"Shit, that must be Ferg…"

They scrambled back into their clothing, which took significantly more effort for Vic than it did for Walt. She could feel the heat of his eyes on her as she shimmied into her jeans, and she couldn't fight the urge to trail her own gaze up the seam of his shirt to where he was hurrying to fasten the snaps with a surprisingly deft touch.

In one fleeting moment inside the charged wire of eye contact that flared between them, a new thought passed unbidden through Vic's mind. As she watched Walt attempt to right his tousled appearance, partly a result of his fitful slumber and partly due to their enthusiastic coupling, she thought of him as her man for the very first time. She'd never had the right before, never even had the inkling, but the lingering endorphins and the ball of messy emotions she'd been carrying for what felt like forever had formed themselves into a mass of possessive affection that she had absolutely no clue how to handle.

There was movement in the outer station room, the sound of a chair being pulled out, and she could visualize Ferg draping his well-worn Carhartt jacket over the wooden chair back. Vic moved toward the door of Walt's private office, slightly ajar but still providing privacy. She jumped at the sensation of Walt's hand wrapping gently around her forearm, dragging her toward him as his other hand wound up to cradle her face. He leaned in, kissing her none too gently, sucking on her bottom lip as he drew back and briefly pressed his forehead against hers. With one last enigmatic look Walt released her, reaching past to pull the door open and guide her through it.

It was hard to imagine that they didn't look like they'd done _exactly_ what they'd just done— her skin was still singing with the memory of his touch— but their sudden appearance didn't seem to phase the younger deputy, who was busily fiddling with his phone and logging into Ruby's computer. Vic was glad as hell that it was dark so that Ferg couldn't see the flush she knew must be suffusing her face.

"Oh good, you're here!"

Someone was certainly in a perky mood…

"You've gotta see— I got this message from a number I've never seen before."

Vic crossed her arms over her chest. "Yeah? That happens to me like every other day, it's usually telemarketers from Nevada or some shit."

Shaking his head, Ferg shot her a pointed do-you-think-I'm-stupid look. "It's from a 307 area code. I'm pretty sure—" He toggled something on the computer screen, clicking through the menus to find whatever he was looking for. "—I think it's from Zachary."

Walt always had a knack for asking the important questions. "Why do you think that?"

"Because of what it says. Look." Ferg dragged his finger over the screen of his smartphone a few times before turning the screen toward them and releasing the device into Walt's waiting hand. On the screen were two concise if somewhat puzzling sentences.

 _Tell Walt I'm sorry. Don't look for me._

The sheriff and two deputies looked at each other for a few long moments before Vic broke the silence.

"He does know that saying 'don't look for me' means we're gonna look even harder, right?"

Ferg's jaw set into an even more determined line, the affirmation plain in his features. "I'm gonna pull up the county phone database and see if the number is registered to anyone local. Beats flipping through the phone book…"

Walt crooked a fleeting half-grin. "They still make those?"

Raising an eyebrow, Vic responded. "Yeah, they're mainly used as ineffective doorstops and really fucking boring bathroom reading." She looked Walt up and down, trying like hell not to openly admire his long frame in front of Ferg. "I've already got Zachary's records out. You wanna help me check through them to see if the number pops up anywhere?"

"Seems unlikely, but we have to start somewhere."

He settled beside her at the desk, just close enough that she could feel the ever-present comforting heat radiating from his arm, and they got straight down to work like the partners they had always been.

* * *

Bit of a transitional chapter, this one. I've been doing some mapping for the rest of the story, so the plot should be moving along in the near future. There's still a few kinks (not like that, get your mind out of the gutter!) for Walt and Vic to work out in their budding relationship, too... raise your hand if you can't wait for them to have their first fight! *puts a nice refreshing drink in each hand that is raised*

Please let me know what you think, or even just pop by to say whether you've been enjoying the story!


	11. An Open Letter

_Sorry to say this is not a new chapter, though one is in the works!_

 _There have been some unpleasant exchanges between authors and reviewers on this site lately, and I felt compelled to address the issue. This is something I have never done before, so please forgive me if this editorial is not of interest to you. For anyone who chooses to read it, feel free to review or PM me with thoughts or concerns._

 **An Open Letter From One Fan Fiction Writer to Readers**

As a base statement I think I can speak for most fan fiction authors when I say that feedback, in the form of reviews or private messages or any variety of reaction, is the life blood of why we write. If we have no audience we have no mandate, and without some confirmation of engagement and trust we are most certainly left bereft of purpose. No author ever wants to feel that their work is not needed or appreciated, so I feel this topic deserves further examination.

This is bound to be a controversial subject, I suppose, because not all readers will love your work and on occasion this can become a source of strife. I am directly familiar with some recent instances of negative feedback in Longmire fandom as concerns fan fiction— we are a small community, and I am sure most writers and readers know of what I speak.

I suppose my hope in writing this is to explain and confirm what a fan writer actually does and what we consider to be our role in fandom at large.

First and foremost, a fan writer has respect for the 'canon' material provided by the creators. In the case of Longmire fandom that would include both Mr. Craig Johnson, author of the Longmire novels, and the producers and writers of the televised version of that universe. There are a lot of ways to interpret what that 'respect' entails.

In my personal opinion, this includes courtesies such as acknowledging thoughtfulness on the part of the show writers in terms of their characterizations and plot decisions. It also assumes a reasonable degree of imaginative leeway, such as one might afford to a friend who tells an embellished story. Suspension of disbelief has been an essential element in filmed entertainment since the silent era, which produced tales far wilder and more outlandish than anything we've been served by the writers and creators of Longmire.

Respecting something doesn't mean that we have to like it. Respecting something doesn't mean we have to agree with it. However, respecting something does very much mean that we need to consider the hours of thought and work that went into creation of the thing in question. This is why fan writers choose not to 'ignore' parts of the story that they may not favor.

The challenge of writing fan fiction is to take what is given to you and make something out of it without compromising the characters, the setting, the essential elements of how the story is told. There are literally dozens of ways to do this. You can take away the plot and make a story with just the characters. You can take away the characters and do it with just the setting. You can erase or alter the characters or setting to the point where everything is entirely unrecognizable… but what is the point in that? Why would you want to take the thing you loved and deconstruct it to the point where it no longer provides any sense of connection?

Ask any fan fiction writer, and they will tell you the same. Our intention is not to alter or override the story or the characters. We want to take the story to new levels. We want to entertain. We want to examine what we are given by the creators and speculate what could happen next or 'fix' those elements that we view as broken— always with hope that these matters will eventually resolve on our screens.

Fan fiction is at the heart a labor of love, a love that has many means of expression. The people who create and consume it are just that— _people._ People as diverse and delicate, as formidable and as fragile as those that you encounter in the real world every day. Some writers are terrified of sharing their work and deserve acknowledgement for their bravery. On the other side, more readers than you could ever guess are intimidated by the review process and spend untold reserves of courage just to let an author know that their work has been enjoyed or to provide criticism where warranted. There is a symbiotic beauty to this process, in the formation of a relationship between reader and writer which benefits and gratifies both and encourages the continuation of that exchange.

What I fail to understand is how anyone could believe that bullying and browbeating have any place here. Writers of fan fiction are unpaid enthusiasts who spend an inordinate amount of free time contemplating, theorizing, constructing, and finding new ways to understand and empathize with the characters. The people who read fan fiction generally respect and appreciate this, though they may not always be fully aware of how vital their support and interest can be in terms of motivating and validating the authors.

We don't write this stuff because our egos are just so huge that we think we know better than the show writers. We don't write it as some complicated form of subversion, set out to delegitimize the carefully wrought stories that have inspired us. If that's what you want us to do, I promise that you will be sorely disappointed. We write because we love the show and the characters and we feel we have something to contribute, whether that be stories in the same vein or something a bit different. We are _fans_ , and many of us are very dedicated shippers. Shipping is a thing that can be very primal and visceral, gut-twisting and close to the heart. We write because those emotions compel us, and cause us to react.

The hope, of course, is for readers to share those feelings with us, or perhaps to find new ways of processing and expressing reactions of their own. This can include disagreements and debates just as much as praise and encouragement, and those conversations serve to keep the cycle of creativity moving. On the other hand, tearing people's work apart while providing no useful form of criticism is both pointless and mean-spirited. Using the feedback engine as a forum for grievances entirely out of the fic author's control is disingenuous at best and at worst will have one ultimate result— a group of writers who are left feeling uninspired, unappreciated, and unwilling or unable to continue sharing what they've created to an audience who responds with nothing but vitriol and antipathy.

I, for one, wish no part in a process that descends onto that level. I've got a real problem with bullying and harassment, and possess no desire to spend what little time I have available to dedicate to fan fiction engaged in defending my work or that of others against attacks formed from a source of bitterness that I can neither understand nor afford any measure of respect. What I do feel compelled to do, however, is to stand up and speak for those authors who may not realize that they are being paid such a disservice or might not know how to react in the face of the irrational contempt being thrown their way.

So, know this.

 _ **Authors:**_ You are appreciated, far more than you realize. For every review you receive, there are probably five silent readers who enjoyed your story without engaging in the feedback process. Some readers are shy, some don't know what to say in a review, but those people are out there and they look to you as a valued source of entertainment in the gap between seasons/novels or just for a dose of spice in their fandom life. I have spoken with many fans who consume fan fiction with great relish even if they never take the time to make that fact known. What you write matters to people, and your updates and stories have brightened many a day. We've had some tough times in Longmire fandom in the past couple years, and fan fiction has always been a light shining into the dark places to provide illumination and bolster morale. Your work has value, and that can never be taken away by the hurtful words of a petty minority.

 _ **Readers:**_ You also are appreciated more than you could ever know. Fic authors may self-motivate to a degree, or formulate plots and scenarios for their own satisfaction, but ultimately the stories here are written to be read. We thrive on feedback, and the review process is very important to us. Some authors painstakingly reply to each review, while others may not have time or inclination to reply to any, but every single thought you share has impact and value. Whether you use that review box to provide praise or to point out typos you are heard, and the time you've taken to communicate your thoughts is gratefully acknowledged. Constructive criticism is rarely provided, but also taken to heart. On occasion that criticism steps over the line into abuse, and that is where a line must be drawn.

To those who feel the need to load their reviews with pervasive negativity and irrelevant commentary, let me say this. When you type words into that little white box, take a minute to think about what you're trying to accomplish. There is a person, an author, who is going to receive the message that you convey. And yes, it will be seen by others as well. If your grievance is personal, perhaps try a private message. If your complaint is with the show runners or script writers, go bitch about it on Facebook or Tweet it to Tony Tost.

Fan authors did not create season 4 of Longmire, but we are determined to function within the world it creates. If what you're looking for is a fic that rejects season 4 and makes no attempt to speculate or theorize based on how fan fiction authors have chosen to interpret it, write one yourself. Fresh voices in fic are always welcome, and there you will have the freedom to create whatever you wish. This is a far better alternative than making authors feel like shit by ridiculing their carefully thought out stories and plot lines because they're not in line with whatever pessimistic, defeatist, cynical, and unsubstantiated garbage theories you've concocted in your spiteful and petulant mind.

Not nice, is it? This is what those reviews feel like to an author. Would you want to keep writing after that? You don't have to like everything, but there are appropriate ways to convey criticism or disagreement which do not veer into the territory of diatribes and borderline harassment. Think before you review, and if you can't do it without spewing malice or positing unwelcome doom and gloom scenarios, maybe take a step back and choose not to comment.

Reviews, as mentioned at the top of this document, are the life blood of fan fiction. Poison can come in many forms, and when it works its way into the blood it can create a sickness. Readers and writers deserve a healthy environment to share and consume stories here, and we all play a part in maintaining that. These words are intended to clarify, to heal, and to remind those who choose to be involved with fan fiction that we all depend upon each other for this magical and interactive form of entertainment to reach its full potential.

So please, let's support each other and be kind. We all get upset sometimes, but there are appropriate venues for the expression of displeasure and it should not be directed at the undeserving. Everyone: keep writing, keep reviewing, talk to each other, encourage, ship, build and shape new stories and unique universes. And if all else fails? Don't let the haters get you down.


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